
« 






I 








f 


1 t 


4 ' 

« 


' » 


i : ’ 

I 





4 




f 






•i 




*« 



a 




» • 



1 

i ' 




* 


I ’ 



t 

• ♦ 

• r 




« 






I 






'v 


r 


I 









} 


f 



« 





f 









, - A‘ 



* * W * 

« * 


1 * 


'/I- 


-^. V, 7 ^ Wv^ 





V 

% 





A. 


- IW 

• •'i^V 


•< ^ 

« » 

*V', 




. ♦ - - » * n 


-»\ 


- V 


-T 




. ^ 
» ^ j f 


V ' 






•. ^ 


' > • 


.'i. 




• * 

r-A 


V 

• i »■ .♦k 

>i-*' - 

V *. 




.* _ » 


• ^ 



t« 

»Y 


* V 

’ -' V 


» » 



•••‘^ • ':V V.--’ 

'I. • ■ •:• . • .- •. - 


» r^ 





* 




y’ 


•t •. 


r 1' * -\,w ■ .* - ■ 



■t * 


• i : 


^ ' 


/ « 
• t~ 




• r 




' i 


*/ 







4 ■ 


*• * ^ 


' / 


» t * 


'"^l. 


k 

■>< 


% » 

'V > 


< * 


. > 


•■ •i' * -> 


' 4 < 


* • 

* C^u' < 

^1 ' 

'• »r» 


> , 4 

w' 




./ 


' - .» 
. . * -•* 
* * “A 




•4 

f * 








’ ‘ » 


. » ► 


» ^ 


; 


V' '■‘■:j .: 

I V'* '• - '►‘Nv 

, -4 .-V • ^ ^ 

*• fP 0 ^-(- 1 . 4 , ' 


* ^ 


•r 




* ' V 


f 

• • • 




t* 










: V 


• ip • 


4 • •. # 





V » 

¥ 


•>. 
r * • .'v 

;»v;s 


.; ■' . 

> ' , .-^ 


I < 



^ t 


« 






* 4 ' 

Vi 


t 


* 






if. 


r': 


v>* 


• ▼ 

lV. 


. » 

V . 


rv 


% 



!iK 


« ^ » 

# f 


4 

* 

'ft 


, > 



J* A: 

A. * 1 * 


»• 


f** ♦ «..*■• i 




i^-«!aMaSt ■ .vs. ':. 




SHE FELL INTO A DREAMY STUDY OF THE FIRE. 







GUILD COURT 


A LONDON STORY 


BY GEORGE MAC DONALD 

M 

Author of “ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD,’' “THE SEABOARD 

PARISH,” Etc,, Etc., Etc. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER, 

6io SOUTH WASHINGTON SQUARE. 



/ /J7cSV 


/ 



Guild Couet. 


CHAPTER 1. 

THE WALK TO THE COUKTING-HOUSE. 

Ih tlie month of November, not 
many years ago, a young man was walk- 
ing from Highbury to the City. It was 
one of those grand mornings that dawn 
only twice or thrice in the course of 
the year, and are so independent of 
times and seasons that November even 
comes in for its share. And it seemed 
as if young Thomas Worboise had at 
his toilet felt the influences of the 
weather, for he was dressed a trifle 
more gayly than was altogether suit- 
able for the old age of the year. Nei- 
ther, however, did he appear in har- 
mony with the tone of the morning, 
which was something as much beyond 
the significance of his costume as the 
great arches of a cathedral upheaving 
a weight of prayer from its shadowed 
heart toward the shadowless heavens 
arc beyond the petty gorgeousness of 
the needlework that adorns the vain 
garments of its priesthood. It was a lofty blue sky, with 
multitudes of great clouds half way between it and the earth, 
among which, as well as along the streets, a glad west wind 
was reveling. There was nothing much for it to do in the 
woods now, and it took to making merry in the clouds and 
.the streets. And so the whole heaven was full of church 

3 



4 


Guild Court, 


windows. Every now and then a great bore in the cloudy 
mass would shoot a sloped cylinder of sun-rays earthward, like 
an eye that saw in virtue of the light it shed itself upon the 
object of its regard. Gray billows of vapor with sunny heads 
tossed about in the air, an ocean for angelic sport, only that 
the angels could not like sport in which there was positively 
no danger. Where the sky shone through it looked awfully 
sweet and profoundly high. But although' Thomas enjoyed 
the wind on his right cheek as he passed the streets that 
opened into High Street, and although certain half sensations, 
half sentiments awoke in him at its touch, his look was often- 
est down at his light trowsers or his enameled boots, and never 
rose higher than the shop windows. 

As he turned into the churchyard to go eastward, he was 
joined by an acquaintance a few years older than himself, 
whose path lay in the same direction. 

J oily morning, ain’t it, Tom ? ” said he. 

^‘Ye-es,” answered Thomas, with something of a fashion- 
able drawl, and in the doubtful tone of one who will be care- 
ful how he either praises or condemns anything. Ye-es. 
It almost makes one feel young again.” 

^‘Ha, ha, ha ! How long is it since you enjoyed the pleas- 
ing sensation last ? ” 

^^None of your chaff, now, Charles.” 

‘‘Well, upon my word, if you don’t like chaff, you put 
yourself at the wrong end of the winnower.” 

“I never read the Georgies.” 

“Yes, I know I was born in the country — a clod-hopper, 
no doubt ; but I can afford to stand your chaff, for I feel as 
young as the day I was born. If you were a fast fellow, now, 

I shouldn’t wonder ; but for one like you, that teaches in the 
Sunday-school and all that, I am ashamed of you, talking like 
that. Confess now, you don’t believe a word of what you 
cram the goslings with.” 

“ Charles, you may make game of me as you like, but I 
won’t let you say a word against religion in my presence. 
You may despise me if you like, and think it very spoony of 
me to teach in the Sunday-school, but — well, you know well 
enr h what I mean.” 



“I can guess at it, old fellow. Come, come, don’t think to 
humbug me. You know as well as I do that you don’t believe 
a word of it. I don’t mean you want to cheat me or any one 
else. I believe you’re above that. But you do cheat yourself. 
VV hat s the good of it all when you don’t feel half as merry as 


5 


The Walk to the Counting-House. 

I do on a bright morning like this ? I never trouble my head 
about that rubbish. Here am I as happy as I care to be — for 
to-day, at least, and ^sufficient unto the day,’ you know.” 

Thomas might have replied, had he been capable of so 
replying, that although the evil is sufficient for the day, the 
good may not be. But he said something very different, 
although with a solemnity fit for an archbishop. 

“ There’s a day coming, Charles, when the evil will be 
more than sufficient. I want to save my soul. You have a 
soul to save, too.” 

Possibly,” answered Charles, with more carelessness than 
he felt ; for he could not help being struck with the senten- 
tiousness of Thomas’s reply, if not with the meaning contained 
in it. As he was not devoid of reverence, however, and had 
been spurred on to say what he had said more from the sense 
of an undefined incongruity between Thomas’s habits, talk 
included, and the impression his general individuality made 
upon him, than from any wish to cry down the creed in which 
he took no practical interest, he went no farther in the direc- 
tion in which the conversation was leading. He doubled. 

‘‘ If your soul be safe, Tom, why should you be so gloomy ?” 

Are there no souls to save but mine ? There’s yours now.” 

‘‘Is that why you put on your shiny trot-boxes and your 
lavender trousers, old fellow ? Come, don’t be stuck up. I 
can’t stand it.” 

“As you please, Charles : I love you too much to mind your 
making game of me.” 

“ Come, now,” said Charles Wither, “ speak right out as I 
am doing to you. You seem to know something I don’t. If 
you would only speak right out, who knows if you mightn’t 
convert me, and save my soul, too, that you make such a fuss 
about. For my part, I haven’t found out that I have a soul 
yet. What am I to do with it before I know I’ve got it ? 
But that’s not the point. It’s the trousers. When I feel 
miserable about myself — ” 

“Nonsense, Charles ! you never do.” 

“ But I do, though. I want something I haven’t got often 
enough ; and, for the life of me, I don’t know what it is. 
Sometimes I think it’s a wife. Sometimes I think it’s free- 
dom to do whatever I please. Sometimes I think it’s a bottle 
of claret and a jolly good laugh. But to return to the trousers. ” 

“ Now leave my trousers alone. It’s quite disgusting to 
treat serious things after such a fashion.” 

I didn’t know trousers were serious things— except to old 


6 


Guild Court 


grandfather Adam. But it’s not about your trousers I was 
talking. It was about my own.” 

“ I see nothing particular about yours.” 

That’s because I’m neither glad nor sorry.” 

^^What do you mean ?” 

^^Now you come to the point. That’s just what I wanted 
to come to myself, only you wouldn’t let me. You kept shy- 
ing like a half -broke filly.” 

Come now, Charles, you know nothing about horses, I am 
Yery sure.” 

Charles Wither smiled, and took no other notice of the 
asseveration. 

What I mean is this,” he said, that when I am in a seri- 
ous, dull-gray, foggy mood, you know — not like this sky — ” 

But when he looked up, the sky was indeed one mass of 
leaden gray. The glory of the unconditioned had yielded to 
the bonds of November, and — IcJiahod. 

‘^Well,” Charles resumed, looking down again, ‘‘1 mean 
just like this same sky over St. Luke’s Work-house here. 
Lord ! I wonder if St. Luke ever knew what kind of thing 
he’d give his medical name to ! When I feel like that, I never 
dream of putting on lavender trousers, you know, Tom, my 
boy. So I can’t understand you, you know. I only put on 
such like — I never had such a stunning pair as those — when I 
go to Kichmond, or — ” 

Of a Sunday, I believe,” said Worboise, settled. 

Of a Sunday. Just so. The better day, the better deed, 
you know, as people say ; though, I dare say, you don’t 
think it,” 

When^ the deed is good, the day makes it better. When 
the deed is bad, the day makes it worse,” said Tom, with a 
mixture of reproof and high sentence,” which was just pure 
nonsense. 

How much of Thomas’s depression was real, and how much 
was put on — I do not mean outwardly put on without being 
inwardly assumed — in order that he might fiatter himself with 
being in close sympathy and harmony with Lord Byron, a 
volume of whose poems was at the time affecting the sym- 
metry of his handsome blue froek-coat, by pulling down one 
tail more than the other, and bumping against his leg every 
step he took — I cannot exactly tell. At all events, the young 
man was— like most men, young and old— under conflicting 
influences ; and these influences he had not yet begun to har- 
monize in any definite result. 


7 


The Walk to the Counting-House, 

By the time they reached Bunhill Fields, they were in a 
gray fog ; and before they got to the counting-house, it had 
grown very thick. Through its reddish mass the gaslights 
shone with the cold brilliance of pale gold. 

The scene of their daily labor was not one of those grand 
rooms with plate-glass windows which now seem to be consid- 
ered, if not absolutely necessary to commercial respectability, 
yet a not altogether despicable means of arriving at such. It 
was a rather long, rather narrow, rather low, but this morning 
not so dark room as usual — for the whole force of gas-burners 
was in active operation. In general it was dark, for it was 
situated in a narrow street, opening off one of the principal 
city thoroughfares. 

As the young men entered, they were greeted with a low 
growl from the principal clerk, a black-browed, long-nosed 
man. This was the sole recognition he gave them. Two 
other clerks looked up with a good-morning and a queer 
expression in their eyes. Some remarks had been made about 
them befere they entered. And now a voice came from the 
penetralia : 

^^Tom, I want you.” 

Tom was disposing of his hat and gloves with some care. 

You hear the governor, Mr. Worboise, I suppose ?” said 
Mr. Stopper, the head clerk, in the same growling voice, only 
articulated now. 

Yes, I hear him,” answered Thomas, with some real and 
some assumed nonchalance. ‘‘ I do hear him, Mr. Stopper.” 

Through a glass partition, which crossed the whole of the 
room, Mr. Boxall, the governor,” might be seen at a writing- 
table, with his face toward the exoteric department. All that 
a spectator from without could see, as he went on writing, was 
a high forehead, occupying more than its due share of a coun- 
tenance which, foreshortened, of course, from his j)osition at 
the table, appeared otherwise commonplace and rather insig- 
nificant, and a head which had been as .finely tonsured by the 
scythe of Time as if the highest ecclesiastical dignity had 
depended upon the breadth and perfection of the vacancy. 
The corona which resulted was iron-gray. 

When Thomas was quite ready he walked into the inner room. 

Tom, my boy, you are late,” said Mr. Boxall, lifting a face 
whose full view considerably modified the impression I have 
just given. There was great brilliance in the deep-set eyes, 
and a certain something, almost merriment, about the mouth, 
hovering lightly over a strong upper lip, which overhung and 


8 


Guild Court 


almost hid a disproportionately small under one. His chin 
was large, and between it and the forehead there was little 
space left for any farther development of countenance. 

‘‘Not very late, I believe, sir,’’ answered Thomas. “My 
watch must have misled me.” 

“ Pull out your watch, my boy, and let us see.” 

Thomas obeyed. 

“ By your own watch, it is a quarter past,” said Mr. Boxall. 

“I have been here five minutes.” 

I will not do you the discredit of granting you have spent 
that time in taking off your hat and gloves. Your watch is 
five minutes slower than mine,” continued Mr. Boxall, pulling 
out a saucepan of silver, “and mine is five minutes slower 
than the Exchange. You are nearly half an hour late. You 
will never get on if you are not punctual. It’s an old-fash- 
ioned virtue, I know. But first at the oiQ&ce is first at the 
winning-post, I can tell you. You’ll never make money if 
you’re late.” 

“ I haye no particular wish — I don’t want to make money,” 
said Thomas. 

“But I do,” rejoined Mr. Boxall, good-naturedly; “and 
you are my servant, and must do your part.” 

Thereat Thomas bridled visibly. 

“Ah I I see,” resumed the merchant ; “you don’t like the 
word. I will change it. There’s no masters or servants now- 
adays ; they are all governors and employees. What they gain 
by the alteration, I am sure I don’t know.” 

I spell the italicized word thus, because Mr. Boxall pro- 
nounced employes exactly as if it were an English word ending 
in ees, 

Mr. Worboise’s lip curled. He could afford to be contempt- 
uous. He had been to Boulogne, and believed he could make 
a Frenchman understand him. He certainly did know two of 
the conjugations out of — I really don’t know how many. His 
master did not see what the curl indicated, but possibly his 
look made Thomas feel that he had been rude. He sought to 
cover it by saying — 

“Mr. Wither was as late as I was, sir. I think it’s very 
hard I should be always pulled up, and nobody else.” 

“ Mr. Wither is very seldom late, and you are often late, 
my boy. Besides, your father is a friend of mine, and I want 
to do my duty by him. I want you to get on.” 

“My father is very much obliged to you, sir.” 

“So he tells me,” returned Mr. Boxall, with remarkable 


The Walk to the Countiny’^House, 9 

good humor. We expect you to dine with us to-morrow, 
mind.’’ 

Thank you, I have another engagement,” answered 
Thomas, with dignity, as he thought. 

Now at length Mr. Boxall’s brow fell. But he looked more 
disappointed than angry. 

am sorry for that, Tom. I wished you could have 
dined with us. I won’t detain you longer. Mind you don’t 
ink your trousers.” 

Was Thomas never to hear the last of those trousers ? He 
began to wish he had not put them on. He made his bow, 
and withdrew in chagrin, considering himself disgraced before 
his fellows, to whom he would gladly have been a model, if he 
could have occupied that position without too much trouble. 
But his heart smote him — gently, it must be confessed — for 
having refused the kindness of Mr. Boxall, and shown so much 
resentment in a matter wherein the governor was quite right. 

Mr. Boxall was a man who had made his money without 
losing his money’s worth. Nobody could accuse him of hav- 
ing ever done a mean, not to say a dishonest thing. This 
would not have been remarkable, had he not been so well rec- 
ognized as a sharp man of business. The more knowing any 
jobber about the Exchange, the better he knew that it was 
useless to dream of getting an advantage over Mr. Boxall. 
But it was indeed remarkable that he should be able to steer 
so exactly in the middle course that, while he was keen as an 
eagle on his own side, he should yet be thoroughly just on the 
other. And, seeing both sides of a question with feuch mar- 
velous clearness, in order to keep his own hands clean he was 
not driven from uncertainty to give the other man anything 
more than his right. Yet Mr. Boxall knew how to be gener- 
ous upon occasion, both in time and money : the ordinary 
sharp man of business is stingy of both. The chief fault he 
had was a too great respect for success. He had risen himself 
by honest diligence, and he thought when a man could not 
rise it must be either from a want of diligence or of honesty. 
Hence he was a 'priori ready to trust the successful man, and 
in some instances to trust him too much. That he had a 
family of three daughters only — one of them quite a child — 
who had never as yet come into collision with any project or 
favorite opinion of his, might probably be one negative cause 
of the continuance of his openheartedness and justice of 
regard. 

Thomas Worboise’s father had been a friend of his for many 


10 


Guild Court 


years— at least so far as that relation could be called friendship 
which consisted in playing as much into each other’s hands in 
the wa,y of business as they could, dining together two or 
three times in the course of the year, and keeping an open 
door to each other’s family. Thomas was an only son, with 
one sister. His father would gladly have brought him up to 
his own profession, that of the law, but Thomas showing con- 
siderable disinclination to the necessaiy studies, he had placed 
him in his friend’s counting-house with the hope that that 
might suit him better. Without a word having been said on 
the subject, both the fathers would have gladly seen the son of 
the one engaged to any daughter of the other. They were 
both men of considerable property, and thought that this 
would be a pleasant way of determining the future of part of 
their possessions. At the same time Mr. Boxall was not quite 
satisfied with what he had as yet seen of Tom’s business char- 
acter. However, there had been no signs of approximation 
between him and either of the girls, and therefore there was 
no cause to be particularly anxious about the matter. 


CHAPTER 11. 

THE INVALID MOTHEE. 

To account in some measure for the condition in which we 
find Tom at the commencement of my story, it will be better 
to say a word here about his mother. She was a woman of 
weak health and intellect, but strong character; was very re- 
ligious, and had a great influence over her son, who was far 
more attached to her than he was to his father. The daugh- 
ter, on the other hand, leaned to her father, an arrangement 
not uncommon in families. 

On the evening of the day on which my story commences, 
office hours were long over before Tom appeared at home. 
He went into his mother’s room, and found her, as usual, re- 
clining on a couch, supported by pillows. She was a woman 
who never complained of her sufferings, and her face, per- 
haps in consequence of her never desiring sympathy, was hard 
and unnaturally still. Nor were her features merely still— 
they looked immobile, and her constant pain was indicated 


The Invalid Mother, 


11 


only by the absence of all curve in her upper lip. When her 
son entered, a gentle shimmer of love shone out of her 
eyes of troubled blue, but the words in which she addressed 
him did not correspond to this shine. She was one of those 
who think the Deity jealous of the amount of love bestowed 
upon other human beings, even by their own parents, and 
therefore struggle to keep down their deepest and holiest emo- 
tions, regarding them not merely as weakness but as positive 
sin, and likely to be most hurtful to the object on which they 
are permitted to expend themselves. 

‘‘Well, Thomas,” said his mother, “what has kept you so 
late?” 

“ Oh ! I don’t know, mother,” answered Tom, in whose at- 
tempted carelessness there yet appeared a touch of anxiety, 
which caught her eye. 

“ You do know, Tom ; and I want to know.” 

“I waited and walked home with Charles Wither.” 

He did not say, “ I waited to walk home.” 

“ How was he so late ? You must have left the office hours 
ago.” 

“ He had some extra business to finish.” 

It was business of his own, not office business ; and Tom 
finding out that he would be walking home a couple of hours 
later, had arranged to join him that he might have this ac- 
count to give of himself. 

“You know I do not like you to be too much with that 
young man. He is not religious. In fact, I believe him to be 
quite worldly. Does he ever go to church ? ” 

“I don’t know, mother. He’s not a bad sort of fellow.” 

“ He is a bad sort of fellow, and the less you are with him 
the better.” 

“ I can’t help being with him in the office, you know, 
mother.” 

“You need not be with him after office hours.” 

“Well, no; perhaps not. But it would look strange to 
avoid him.” 

“ I thought you had more strength of character, Thomas. 

— I — I spoke very seriously to him this morning, 
mother. ” 

“ Ah ! That alters the case, if you have courage to speak 
the truth to him.” 

At that moment the door opened, and the curate of bt. 
Solomon’s was announced. Mrs. Worboise was always at 
home to him, and he called frequently, both because she was 


12 


Guild Court 


too great an inyalid to go to church, and because they sup- 
posed, on the ground of their employing the same religious 
phrases in their conyersation, that they understood each other. 
He was a gentle, abstracted youth, with a face that looked as 
if its informing idea had been for a considerable period sat 
upon by something ungenial. With him the profession had 
become eyerything, and humanity neyer had been anything, if 
not something bad. He walked through the crowded streets 
in the neighborhood with hurried step and eyes fixed on the 
ground, his pale face rarely brightening with recognition, for 
he seldom saw any passing acquaintance. When he did, he 
greeted him with a yoice that seemed to come from far-off 
shores, but came really from a bloodless, neryeless chest, that 
had nothing to do with life, saye to yield up the ghost in eter- 
nal security, and send it safe out of it. He seemed to recog- 
nize none of those human relations which make the blood 
mount to the face at meeting, and giye strength to the grasp 
of the hand. He would not haye hurt a fly ; he would haye 
died to saye a malefactor from the gallows, that he might giye 
him another chance of repentance. But mere human aid he 
had none to bestow ; no warmth, no heartening, no hope. 

Mr. Simon bowed solemnly, and shook hands with Mrs. 
Worboise. 

‘^How are you to-night,’’ Mrs. Worboise ?” he said, glanc- 
ing round the room, howeyer. For the only sign of humanity 
about him was a certain weak admiration of Amy Worboise, 
who, if tried by his own tests, was dreadfully unworthy eyen 
of that. For she was a merry girl, who made great sport of 
the little church-mouse, as she called him. 

Mrs. Worboise did not reply to this question, which she 
always treated as irrelcyant. Mr. Simon then shook hands 
with Thomas, wlio looked on him with a respect inherited 
from his mother. 

Any signs of good in your class, Mr. Thomas ? ” he asked. 

The question half irritated Tom. Why, he could not haye 
explained eyen to himself. The fact was that he had begun 
to enter upon another phase of experience since he saw the 
curate last, and the Sunday-school was just a little distasteful 
to him at the moment. 

Ho,” he answered, with a certain slightest motion of the 
head that might haye been interpreted either as of weariness 
or of indifference. 

The clergyman interpreted it as of the latter, and proceeded 
to justify hjs question, addressing his words to the mother. 


The Invalid Mother. 


13 


Your son thinks me too anxious about the fruits of his 
labor, Mrs. Worboise. But when we think of the briefness 
of life, and how soon the night comes when no man can 
work, I do not think we can be too earnest to win souls for our 
crown of rejoicing when He comes with the holy angels. 
First our own souls, Mr. Thomas, and then the souls of others.” 

Thomas, believing every word that the curate said, made 
notwithstanding no reply, and the curate went on. 

There are so many souls that might be saved, if one were 
only in earnest, and so few years to do it in. We do not strive 
with God in prayer, Mrs. Worboise. We faint and cease from 
our prayers and our endeavors together.” 

That is too true,” responded the lad^. 

I try to do my best,” said Thomas, in a tone of apology, 
and with a lingering doubt in his mind whether he was really 
speaking the absolute truth. But he comforted himself with 
saying to himself, I only said ‘I try to do my best ; ’ I did 
not say, ^ I try my best to do my best.’ ” 

I have no reason to doubt it, my young friend,” returned 
the curate, who was not ten years older than his young friend. 
‘‘1 only fancied — no doubt it was but the foolish fancy of my 
own anxiety — that you did not respond quite so heartily as 
usual to my remark.” 

The mother’s eyes were anxiously fixed on her son during 
the conversation, for her instincts told her that he was not 
quite at his ease. She had never given him any scope, never 
trusted him, or trained him to freedom ; but, herself a pris- 
oner to her drawing-room and bedroom, sought with all her 
energy and contrivance, for which she had plenty of leisure, 
to 'keep,' stren^hen, and repair the invisible cable by which 
she seemed to herself to hold, and in fact did hold, him, even 
when he was out of her sight, and himself least aware of the 
fact. 

As yet again Thomas made no reply, Mr. Simon changed 
the subject. 

^^Have you much pain to-night, Mrs. Worboise?” he 
asked. 

I can Dear it,” she answered. It will not last forever.” 

You find comfort in looking to the rest that remaineth,” 
responded Mr. Simon. It is the truest comfort. Still, your 
friends would gladly see you enjoy a little more of the pres- 
ent — ” world, Mr. Simon was going to say, but the word was 
unsuitable ; so ho changed it — of the present — ah ! dispen- 
sation,” he said. 


14 


Guild Court 


The love of this world bringeth a snare,” suggested Mrs. 
Worboise, believing that she quoted Scripture. 

Thomas rose and left the room. He did not return till the 
curate had taken his leave. It was then almost time for his 
mother to retire. As soon as he entered he felt her anxious 
pale-blue eyes fixed upon him. 

‘‘Why did you go, Thomas ?” she asked, moving on her 
couch, and revealing by her face a twinge of sharper pain than 
ordinary. “You used to listen with interest to the conversa- 
tion of Mr. Simon. He is a man whose conversation is in 
Heaven.” 

“ I thought you would like to have a little private talk with 
him, mamma. You generally do have a talk with him 
alone.” 

“ Don’t call it talk, Thomas. That is not the proper word 
to use.” 

“ Communion then, mother,” answered Thomas, with the 
feeling of aversion a little stronger and more recognizable than 
before, but at the same time annoyed with himself that he thus 
felt. And, afraid that he had shown the feeling which he did 
recognize, he hastened to change the subject and speak of one 
which he had at heart. 

“ But, mother, dear, I wanted to speak to you about some- 
thing. You mustn’t mind my being late once or twice a week 
now, for I am going in for German. There is a very good 
master lives a few doors from the counting-house ; and "if you 
take lessons in the evening at his own lodgings, he charges so 
much less for it. And, you know, it is such an advantage 
nowadays for any one who wants to get on in business to know 
German ! ” 

“Does Mr. Wither join you, Thomas ?” asked his mother, 
in a tone of knowing reproof. 

“No, indeed, mother,” answered Thomas ; and a gleam of 
satisfaction shot through his brain as his mother seemed satis- 
fied. Either, however, he managed to keep it off his face, or 
his mother did not perceive or understand it, for the satisfac- 
tion remained on her countenance. 

“I will speak to your father about it,” she answered. 

This was quite as much as Thomas could have hoped for : he 
had no fear of his father making any objection. He kissed 
his mother on the cheek — it was a part of her system of 
niortifying the flesh with its affections and lusts that she never 
kissed him v.dth any fervor, and rarely allowed those straight 
lips to meet his — and they parted for the night. 


Expostulation, 


15 


CHAPTER HI. 

EXPOSTUL ATIOl?*. 

Thomas descended to breakfast, feeling fresh and hopeful. 
The weather had changed during the night, and it was a clear, 
frosty morning, cold blue cloudless sky and cold gray leafless 
earth reflecting each other’s winter attributes. The sun was 
there, watching from afar how they could get on without him ; 
but, as if they knew he had not forsaken them, they were both 
merry. Thomas stood up with his back to the blazing fire, 
and through the window saw his father walking bareheaded in 
the garden. He had not returned home till late the night 
before, and Thomas had gone to bed without seeing him. 
Still he had been up the first in the house, and had been at 
work for a couple of hours upon the papers he had brought 
home in his blue bag. Thomas walked to the window to show 
himself, as a hint to his father that breakfast was ready. Mr. 
Worboise saw him, and came in. Father and son did not 
shake hands or wish each other good-morning, but they nod- 
ded and smiled, and took their seats at the table. As Mr. 
Worboise sat down, he smoothed, first with one hand, then 
with the other, two long side-tresses of thin hair, trained like 
creepers over the top of his head, which was perfectly bald. 
Their arrangement added to the resemblance his forehead 
naturally possessed to the bottom of a flat-iron, set up on the 
base of its triangle. His eyebrows were very dark, straight, 
and bushy, his eyes a keen hazel ; his nose straight on the 
ridge, but forming an obtuse angle at the point ; his mouth 
curved upward, and drawn upward by the corners when he 
smiled, which gave him the appearance of laughing down at 
evsry thing ; his chin now is remarkable. And there, reader, 
I hope you have him. I ought to have mentioned that no one 
ever saw his teeth, though to judge from his performances at 
the table, they were in serviceable condition. He was consid- 
erably above the middle hight, shapeless rather than stout, 
and wore black clothes. 

‘^You’re going to dine at the Boxall’s to-night, I believe, 
Tom ? Mr. Boxall asked me, but I can’t go. I am so busy 
with that case of Spender & Spoon.” 

No, father. I don’t mean to go,” said Tom. 

Why not ? ” asked Mr. Worboise, with some surprise, and 


Guild Court, 


.16 

more than a hint of dissatisfaction. ^^Your mother hasn’t 
been objecting, has she ? ” 

I am not aware that my mother knows of the invitation,” 
answered Tom, trying to hide his discomfort in formality of 
speech. 

‘‘Well, / said nothing about it, I believe. But I accepted 
for you at the same time that I declined for myself. You saw 
the letter— I left it for you.” 

“Yes, sir, I did.” 

“ Well, in the name of Heaven, what do you mean ? You 
answer as if you were in the witness-box. I am not going to 
take any advantage of you. Speak out, man. Why won’t you 
go to Boxall’s ? ” 

“ Well, sir, to tell the truth, I didn’t think he behaved 
quite well to me yesterday. I happened to be a few minutes 
late, and — ” 

“ And Boxall blew you up ; and that’s the way you take to 
show your dignified resentment ! Bah !” 

“ He ought to behave to me like a gentleman.” 

“ But how is he, if he isn’t a gentleman ? He hasn’t had 
the bringing up you’ve had. But he’s a good, honest fellow, 
and says what he means. ” 

“That is just what I did, sir. And you have always told 
me that honesty is the best policy.” 

“ Yes, I confess. But that is not exactly the kind of hon- 
esty I mean,” returned Mr. Worboise with a fishy smile, for 
his mouth was exactly of the fish type. “ The law scarcely 
refers to the conduct of a gentleman as a gentleman.” 

This was obscure to his son, as it may be to the reader. 

“ Then you don’t want me to behave like a gentleman ?” said 
Tom. 

“ Keep your diploma in your pocket till it’s asked for,” 
answered his father. “ If you are constantly obtruding it on 
other people, they will say you bought it and paid for it. A 
gentleman can afford to put an affront in beside it, when he 
knows it’s there. But the idea of good old Boxall insulting 
a son of mine is too absurd, Tom. You must remember you 
are his servant.” 

“ So he told me,” said Tom, with reviving indignation. 

“ And that, I suppose, is what you call an insult, eh ? ” 

“ Well, to say the least, it is not a pleasant word to use.” 

“Especially as it expresses a disagreeable fact. Come, 
come, my boy. Better men then you will ever be have had to 
sweep their master’s office before now. But no reference is 


Expostulcdion, 17 

made to the fact after they call the office their own. You go 
and tell Mr. Boxall that you will he happy to dine with him 
to-night if he will allow you to change your mind.” 

But I told him I was engaged.” 

Tell him the engagement is put off, and you are at his 
service.” 

But — ” began Tom, and stopped. He was going to say 
the engagement was not put off. 

But what ?” said his father. 

I don’t like to do it,” answered Tom. He will take it 
for giving in and wanting to make up.” 

‘‘ Leave it to me, then, my boy,” returned his father, 
kindly. I will manage it. My business is not so very press- 
ing but that I can go if I choose. I will write and say that a 
change in my plans has put it in my power to be his guest, 
after all, and that I have persuaded you to put off your engage- 
ment and come with me.” 

‘‘But that would be — would not be true,” hesitated 
Tom. 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! I’ll take the responsibility of that. Be- 
sides, it is true. Your mother will make a perfect spoon of 
you — with the help of good little Master Simon. Can’t I 
change my plans if I like ? We must not offend Boxall. He 
is a man of mark — and warm. I say nothing about figures — 
I never tell secrets. I don’t even say how many figures. But 
I know all about it, and venture to say, between father and 
son, that he is warm, decidedly warm — possibly hot,” concluded 
Mr. Worboise, laughing. 

“ I don’t exactly understand you, sir,” said Tom, medita- 
tively- 

“ ’You would understand me well enough if you had a mind 
to business,” answered his father. 

But what he really meant in his heart was that Mr. Boxall 
had two daughters, to one of whom it was possible that his son 
might take a fancy, or rather — ^to express it in the result, which 
was all that he looked to— a marriage might be brought about 
between Tom and Jane or Mary Boxall ; in desiring which he 
thought he knew what he was about, for he was Mr. Boxall’s 
man of business. 

“ I won’t have yon offend Mr. Boxall, anyhow,” he con- 
cluded. “ He is your governor.” 

The father had tact enough to substitute the clerk’s pseu- 
donym for the obnoxious term. 

“ Very well, sir ; I suppose I must leave it to you,” an- 

2 . 


18 Guild Court 

swered Tom ; and they finished their breakfast without re- 
turning to the subject. 

When he reached the counting-house, Tom went at once to 
Mr. Boxall’s room, and made his apologies for being late again, 
on the ground that his father had detained him while he wrote 
the letter he now handed to him. Mr. Boxall glanced at the 
note. 

I am Ycry glad, Tom, that both your father and you have 
thought better of it. Be punctual at seyen.” 

Wife must put another leaf yet in the table,” he said to 
himself, as Thomas retired to his desk. ‘‘ Tliirteen’s not 
lucky, though ; but one is sure to be absent.” 

No one was absent, however, and number thirteen was the 
standing subject of the jokes of the evening, especially as the 
thirteenth was late, in the person of Mr. Wither, whom Mr. 
Boxall had invited out of mere good nature ; for he did not 
care much about introducing him to his family, although his 
conduct in the counting-house was irrei^roachable. Miss Wor- 
boise had been invited with her father and brother, but whether 
she stayed at home to nurse her mother or to tease the curate, 
is of no great importance to my history. 

The dinner was a good, well-contrived, rather antiquated 
dinner, within the compass of the house itself ; for Mrs. Box- 
all only pleased her husband as often as she said that they 
were aiid would remain old-fashioned people, and would have 
their own maids to prepare and serve a dinner — ‘^none of those 
men-cooks and undertakers to turn up their noses at every- 
thing in the house ! ” But Tom abused the whole affair with- 
in himself as nothing but a shop-dinner : for there was Mr. 
Stopper, the head-clerk, looking as sour as a summons ; and 
there was Mr. Wither, a good enough fellow and gentleman- 
like, but still of the shop ; besides young Weston, of whom 
nobody could predicate any thing in particular, save that he 
stood m such awe of Mr. Stopper, that he missed the y/ay to 
his mouth in taking stolen stares at him across the table. Mr. 
Worboise sat at the hostess’s left hand, and Mr. Stopper at 
her right ; Tom a little way from his father, with Mary Box- 
all, whom he had taken down, beside him ; and many were 
the underbrowed glances which the head- clerk shot across the 
dishes at the couple. 

Mary was a very pretty, brown-haired, white-skinned, blue- 
ej^ed damsel, whose charms lay in harmony of color, general 
rqundness, the smallness of her extremities, and her simple 
kind-heartedness. She was dressed in vrhite muslin, with 


Expostulation, 19 

ribbons precisely the color of her eyes. Tom could not help 
being pleased at having her beside him. She was not difficult 
to entertain, for she was willing to be interested in anything ; 
and while Tom was telling her a story about a young lad in 
his class at the Sunday-school, whom he had gone to see at 
his wretched home, those sweet eyes filled with tears, and Mr. 
Stopper saw it, and choked in his glass of sherry. Tom saw 
it too, and would have been more overcome thereby, had it not 
been for reasons. 

Charles Wither, on the opposite side of the table, was neg- 
lecting his own lady for the one at his other elbow, who was 
Jane Boxall — a fine, regular-featured, dark-skinned young 
Avoman. They were watched with stolen glances of some 
anxiety from both ends of the table, for neither father nor 
mother cared much about Charles Wither, although the 
former was too kind to omit inviting him to his house occa- 
sionally. 

After the ladies retired, the talk was about politics, the 
money-market, and other subjects quite uninteresting to Tom, 
v/ho, as I have already said, was at this period of his history 
a reader of Byron, and had therefore little sympathy with 
human pursuits except they took some abnormal form — such 
as piracy, atheism, or the like — in the person of one endowed 
with splendid faculties and gifts in general. So he stole away 
from the table, and Joined the ladies some time before the 
others rose from their Avine ; not, however, before he had him- 
self drunk more than his gravity of demeanor was quite suffi- 
cient to ballast. He found Mary turning over some music, 
and as he drew near he saw her laying aside, in its turn, 
Byron’s song, She walks in beauty.” 

‘^Oh ! do you sing that song. Miss Mary ?” he asked with 
empressement, 

I have sung it several times,” she answered ; ^^but I am 
afraid I cannot sing it well enough to please you. Are you 
fond of the song ? ” 

‘‘I only know the words of it, and should so much like to 
hear you sing it. I never heard it sung. Do, Miss Mary.” 

You Avill be indulgent, then ?” 

‘‘ I shall have no chance of exercising that virtue, I know. 
There.” 

He put the music on the piano as he spoke, and Mary, ad- 
justing her white skirts and her white shoulders, began to 
sing the song with taste, and, what was more, with simplicity. 
Her voice was very pleasant to the ears of Thomas, warbling 


20 


Guild Court 


one of tlie songs of the man whom, against his conscience, he 
could not help regarding as the greatest he knew. So much 
moved was he, that the signs of his emotion would have been 
plainly seen had not the rest of the company, while listening 
more or less to the song, been employing their eyes at the same 
time with Jane’s portfolio of drawings. All the time he had 
his eyes upon her white shoulder : stooping to turn the last 
leaf from behind her, he kissed it lightly. At the same mo- 
ment the door opened, and Mr. Stopper entered. Mary 
stopped singing, and rose with a face of crimson and the 
timidest, slightest glance at Tom, whose face flushed up in 
response. 

It was a foolish action, possibly repented almost as soon as 
done. Certainly, for the rest of the evening, Thomas sought 
no opportunity of again approaching Mary. I do not doubt it 
was with some feeling of relief that he heard his father say 
it was time for them to be going home. 

None of the parents would have been displeased had they 
seen the little passage between the young people. Neither was 
Mary offended at what had cccurred. "While she sat singing, 
she knew that the face bending over her was one of the hand- 
somest — a face rather long and pale, of almost pure Greek out- 
line, with a high forehead, and dark eyes with a yet darker 
fringe. Nor, although the reader must see that Torn had 
nothing yet that could be called character, was his face there- 
fore devoid of expression ; for he had plenty of feeling, and 
that will sometimes shine out the more from the very absence 
of a characteristic meaning in the countenance. Hence, when 
Mary felt the kiss, and glanced at the face whence it had fallen, 
she read more in the face than there was in it to read, and the 
touch of his lips went deeper than her white shoulder. They 
were both young, and as yet mere electric jars charged with 
emotions. Had they both continued such as they were now, 
there could have been no story to tell about them ; none such, 
at least, as I should care to tell. They belonged to the com- 
mon class of mortals who, although they are weaving a history, 
are not aware of it, and in whom the process goes on so slowly 
that the eye of the artist can find in them no substance suffi- 
cient to be woven into a human creation in tale or poem. 
How dull that life looks to him, Avith its ambitions, its love- 
making, its dinners, its sermons, its tailors’ bills, its Aveariness 
OYer all — Avithout end or goal save that toward Avhich it is 
driven purposeless ! Not till a hope is born such that its full- 
filmcnt depends upon the will of him Avffio cherishes it, does a 


Expostulation. 21 

man begin to develop the stuff out of wbieh a tale can be 
wrought. I’or then he begins to have a story of his own — it 
may be for good, it may be for evil — but a story. Thomas’s 
religion was no sign of this yet ; for a man can no more be 
saved by the mere reflex of parental influences than he will 
be condemned by his inheritance of parental sins. I do not 
say that there is no interest in the emotions of such young 
people ; but I say there is not reality enough in them to do 
anything with. They are neither consistent nor persistent 
enough to be wrought into form. Such are in the condition 
over which, in the miracle-play, Adam laments to Eve after 
their expulsion from Paradise — 

“ Oure hap was hard, oure wytt was nesche {soft, tender) 

To paradys whan we were brought.” 

Mr. Boxall lived in an old-fashioned house in Hackney, with 
great rooms and a large garden. Through the latter he went 
with Mr. Worboise and Tom to let them out at a door in the 
wall, which would save them a few hundred yards in going to 
the North London Railway. There were some old trees in 
the garden, and much shrubbery. As he returned he heard a 
rustle among the lilacs that crowded about a side-walk, and 
thought he saw the shimmer of a white dress. When he 
entered the drawing-room, his daughter Jane entered from 
the opposite door. He glanced round the room : Mr. Wither 
was gone. This made Mr. Boxall suspicious and restless ; for, 
as I have said, he had not confidence in Mr. Wither. Though 
punctual and attentive to business, he was convinced that he 
was inclined to be a fast man ; and he strongly suspected him 
of being concerned in betting transactions of different sorts, 
which are an abomination to the man of true business associa- 
tions and habits. 

Mr. Worboise left the house in comfortable spirits, for 
Providence had been propitious to him for some months past, 
and it mattered nothing to him whether or how the wind 
blew. But it blew from the damp west cold and grateful upon 
Thomas’s brow. The immediate influence of the wine he had 
drunk had gone off, and its effects remained in discomfort and 
doubt. Had he got himself into a scrape with Mary Boxall ? 
He had said nothing to her. He had not committed himself 
to anything. And the wind blew cooler and more refreshing 
upon his forehead. And then came a glow of pleasure as he 
recalled her blush and the glance she had so timidly lifted 


22 


Guild Court. 


toward his lordly face. That was something to be proud of ! 
Certainly he was one whom women — I suppose he said girls 
to himself —were ready to— yes— to fall in love with. Proud 
position ! Enviable destiny ! Before he reached home the 
wind had blown away every atom of remorse with the sickly 
fumes of the wine ; and although he resolved to be careful 
how he behaved to Mary Boxall m future, he hugged his own 
handsome idea in the thought that she felt his presence, and 
•V7as — ^just a little — not dangerously — but really a little in love 
with him. 


CHAPTER IV. 

GUILD COUET. 

The office was closed, the shutters were up in the old- 
fashioned way on the outside, the lights extinguished, and 
Mr. Stopper, who was always the last to leave, was gone. The 
narrow street looked very dreary, for most' of its windows were 
similarly covered. The shutters, the pavements, the kennels, 
everything shone and darkened by fits. For it was a blowing 
night, with intermittent showers, and everything was wet, and 
reflected the gaslights in turn, which the wind teased into all 
angles of relation with neighboring objects, tossing them about 
like flowers ready at any moment to be blown from their stems. 
Great masses of gray went sweeping over the narrow section of 
the sky that could be seen from the pavement. 

How and then the moon gleamed out for one moment and 
no more, swallowed the next by a mile of floating rain, dusky 
and shapeless. Fighting now with a fierce gust, and now 
limping along in comparative quiet, with a cotton umbrella 
for a staff, an old v^oman passed the ofiice, glanced up at the 
shuttered windows, and, after walking a short distance, turned 
into a paved archway, and then going along a narrow passage, 
reached a small paved square, called Guild Court. Here she 
took from her pocket a latch-key, and opening a door much 
in want of paint, but otherwise in good condition, entered, 
and ascended a broad, dusky stair-case, with great landings, 
whence each ascent rose at right angles to the preceding. 
The dim light of the tallow candle, which she had left in a 
corner of the stair-case as she descended, and now took up 


Guild Court, 


23 


with her again, was sufficient to show that the balusters were 
turned and carved, and the hand-rail on the top of them broad 
and channeled. When she reached the first floor, she went 
along a passage, and at the end of it opened a door. A cheer- 
ful fire burned at the other end of a large room, and by the 
side of the fire sat a girl, gazing so intently into the glowing 
coals, that she seemed unaware of the old woman^s entrance. 
When she spoke to her, she started and rose. 

So you’re come home, Lucy, and searching the fire for a 
wishing-cap, as usual ! ” said the old lady, cheerily. 

The girl did not reply, and she resumed, with a little change 
of tone — 

I do declare, child. I’ll never let him cross the door again, 
if it drives you into the dumps that way. Take heart of 

f race, my girl ; you’re good enough for him any day, though 
e be a fine gentleman. He’s no better gentleman than my 
son, anyhovy^, though he’s more of a buck.” 

Lucy moved about a little uneasily ; turned to the high 
mantel-piece, took up some trifle and played with it nervously, 
set it down with a light sigh, the lightness of which was prob- 
ably affected ; went across the room to a chest of drawers, in 
doing which she turned her back on the old woman ; and then 
only replied, in a low pleasant voice, which wavered a little, 
as if a good cry were not far off — 

‘‘I’m sure, grannie, you’re always kind to him when he 
comes.” 

“ I’m civil to him, child. Who could help it ? Such a fine, 
handsome fellow ! And has got very winning ways with him, 
too ! That’s the mischief of it I I always had a soft heart to 
a frank face. A body would think I wasn’t a bit wiser than 
the day I was born.” 

And she laughed a toothless old laugh which must once have 
been very pleasant to her husband to hear, and indeed was 
pleasant to hear now. By this time she had got her black 
bonnet off, revealing a widow’s cap, with gray hair neatly 
arranged down the sides of a very wrinkled old face. Indeed 
the wrinkles were innumerable, so that her cheeks and fore- 
head looked as if they had been crimped with a penknife, like 
a piece of fine cambric frill. But there was not one deep rut 
in her forehead or cheek. Care seemed to have had nothing 
at all to do with this condition of them. 

“ Well, grannie, why should you be so cross with me for 
liking him, when you like him just as much yourself ? ” said 
Lucy, archly. 


24 


GuUd Court, 


Cross with you, child I I’m not cross with you, and you 
know that quite well. You know I never could be cross with 
you even if I ought to be. And I didn’t ought now, I’m sure. 
But I am cross with him ; for he can’t be behaving right to 
you when your sweet face looks like that.” 

‘^Now don’t, grannie, else I shall have to be cross with you. 
Don’t say a word against him. Don’t now, dear grannie, or 
you and I shall quarrel, and that would break my heart.” 

Bless the child I I’m not saying a word for or against him. 
I’m afraid you’re a great deal too fond of him, Lucy. What 
hold have you on him now ? ” ^ 

What hold, granny I ” exclaimed Lucy, indignantly. Do 
you think if I were going to be married to him to-morrow, 
and he never came to the church — do you think I would lift 
that bonnet to hold him to it ? Indeed, then, I wouldn’t. ” 

And Lucy did not cry, but she turned her back on her 
grandmother as if she would rather her face should not be 
seen. 

What makes you out of sorts, to-night, then, lovey ?” 

Lucy made no reply, but moved hastily to the window, 
made the smallest possible chink between the blind and the 
window-frame, and peeped out into the court. She had 
heard a footstep which she knew ; and now she glided, quiet 
and swift as a ghost, out of the room, closing the door behind 
her. 

I wonder when it will come to an end. Always the same 
thing over again, I suppose, to the last of the world. It’s no 
use telling them what we know. It won’t make one of them 
young things the wiser. The first man that looks at them 
turns the head of them. And I must confess, if I was young 
again myself, and hearkening for my J ohn’s foot in the court, 
I might hobble — no, not hobble then, but run down the stairs 
like Lucy there, to open the door for him. But then John 
was a good one ; and there’s few o’ them like him now, I 
doubt. 

Something like this, I venture to imagine, was passing 
through the old woman’s mind when the room door opened 
again, and Lucy entered with Thomas Worboise. Her face 
was shining like a summer now, and a conscious pride sat on 
the forehead of the young man which made him look far 
nobler than he has yet shown himself to my reader. The last 
of a sentence came into the room with him. 

So you see, Lucy, I could not help it. My father — How 
do you do you do, Mrs. Boxall ? What a blowing night it is I 


Guild CouH, 


25 


But you have a kind of swallow’s nest here, for hardly a breath 
gets into the court when our windows down below in the 
counting-house are shaking themselves to bits.” 

It was hardly a room to compare to a swallow’s nest. It 
was a very large room indeed. The floor, which was dark with 
age, was uncarpeted, save just before the fire, which blazed 
brilliantly in a small kitchen-range, curiously contrasting with 
the tall, carved chimney-piece above it. The ceiling corre- 
sponded in style, for it was covered with ornaments — 

All made out of the carver’s brain. 

And the room was strangely furnished. The high oak settle 
of a farm-house stood back against the wall not far from the 
fire, and a few feet from it a tall, old-fashioned piano, which 
bore the name of Broadwood under the cover. At the side of 
the room farthest from the fire stood one of those chests of 
drawers, on which the sloping lid at the top left just room for 
a glass-doored book-case to stand, rivaling the piano in bight. 
Then there was a sofa, covered with chintz plentifully be- 
sprinkled with rose-buds ; and in the middle of the room a 
square mahogany table, called by upholsterers a pembrohe, I 
think, the color of which was all but black with age and man- 
ipulation, only it could not be seen n:w because it was covered 
with a check of red and blue. A few mahogany chairs, 
seated with horse hair, a fire-screen in faded red silk, a wooden 
footstool and a tall backed easy-chair, covered with striped 
stuff, almost completed the furniture of the nondescript 
apartment. 

Thomas Worboise carried a chair to the fire, and put his 
feet on the broad-barred bright kitchen fender in front of it. 

^^Are your feet wet, Thomas ?” asked Lucvwith some gen- 
tle anxiety, and a tremor upon his name, as if she had not yet 
got quite used to saying it without a Mr, before it. 

Oh no, thank you. I don’t mind a little wet. Hark how 
the wind blows in the old chimney up there ! It’ll be an awk- 
ward night on the west coast, this. I wonder what it feels 
like to be driving right on the rocks at the Land’s End, or 
some such place.” 

Don’t talk of such things in that cool way, Mr. Thomas. 
You make my blood run cold,” said Mrs. Boxall. 

He doesn’t mean it, you know, grannie,” said Lucy medi- 
tating. 

But I do mean it. I should like to know how it feels,” 


26 


Guild Court 


persisted Thomas — ^^with the yery shrouds, as taut as steel 
bars, blowing out in the hiss of the nor’wester.” 

‘‘Yes, I dare say ! ” returned the old lady, with some indig- 
nation. “You would like to know how it felt so long as your 
muddy boots was on my clean fender ! ” 

Thomas did not know that the old lady had lost one son at 
sea, and had another the captain of a sailing-yessel, or he 
would not have spoken as he did. But he was always wanting 
to know how things felt. Had not his education rendered it im- 
possible for him to see into the state of his own mind, he might, 
questioned as to what he considered the ideal of life, have re- 
plied, “ A continuous succession of delicate and poetic sensa- 
tions.” Hence he had made many a frantic effort after relig- 
ious sensations. But the necessity of these was now somewhat 
superseded by his growing attachment to Lucy, and the sensa- 
tions consequent upon that. 

Up to this moment, in his carriage and speech, he had been 
remarkably different from himself, as already showm in my 
history. For he was, or thought himself, somebody here ; and 
there was a freedom and ease about his manner, amounting, 
in fact, to a slight though not disagreeable swagger, which 
presented him to far more advantage than he had in the pres- 
ence of his father and mother, or even of Mr. Boxall and Mr. 
Stopper. But he never could bear any one to be displeased 
with him except he were angry himself. So when Mrs. Box- 
all spoke as she did, his countenance fell. He instantly re- 
moved his feet from the fender, glanced up at her face, saw 
that she was really indignant, and, missing the real reason of 
course, supposed that it was because he had been indiscreet in 
being disrespectful to a cherished article of housewifery. It 
was quite characteristic of Tom that he instantly pulled his 
handkerchief from his pocket, and began therewith to restore 
the brightness of the desecrated iron. This went at once to 
the old lady’s heart. She snatched the handkerchief out of 
his hand. 

“ Come, come, Mr. Thomas. Don’t ye mind an old woman 
like that. To think of using your handkerchief that way ! 
And cambric too ! ” 

Thomas looked up in surprise, and straightway recovered 
his behavior. 

“I didn’t think of your fender,” he said* 

“ Oh, drat the fender ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Boxall, with more 
energy than refinement. 

And so the matter dropped, and all sat silent for a few mo- 


More about Guild Court 


27 


ments, Mrs. Boxall with her knitting, and Tom and Lucy be- 
side each other with their thoughts. Lucy presently returned 
to their talk on the stair-case. 

So you were out at dinner on Wednesday, Thomas 
Yes. It was a great bore, but I had to go. — Boxall’s, you 
know. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Boxall ; but that’s how fel- 
lows like me talk, you know. I should have said Mr. Boxall. 
And I didn’t mean that he was a bore. That he is not, though 
he is a little particular — of course. I only meant it was a bore 
to go there when I wanted to come here.” 

Is my cousin Mary very pretty ? ” asked Lucy, with a 
meaning in her tone which Thomas easily enough understood. 

He could not help blushing, for he remembered, as well he 
might. And she could not help seeing, for she had eyes, very 
large ones, and at least as loving as they were large. 

‘‘Yes, she is very pretty,” answered Thomas; “hut not 
nearly so pretty as you, Lucy.” 

Thomas, then, was not stupid, although my reader will see 
that he was weak enough. And Lucy was more than half sat- 
isfied, though she did not half like that blush. But Thomas 
himself did not like either the blush or its cause. And poor 
Lucy knew nothing of either, only meditated upon another 
blush, quite like this as far as appearance went, but with a 
different heart to it. 

Thomas did not stop more than half an hour. When he 
left, instead of walking straight out of Guild Court by the 
narrow paved passage, he crossed to the opposite side of the 
court, opened the door of a more ancient-looking house, and 
entered. Eeappearing — ^that is, to the watchful eyes of Lucy 
manoeuvring with the window-blind — after about two minutes, 
he walked home to Highbury, and told his mother that he 
had come straight from his German master, who gave him 
hopes of being able, before many months should have passed, 
to write a business letter in intelligible German. 


CHAPTEE V. 

MOKE ABOUT GUILD COURT. 

Mks. Boxall was the mother of Eichard Boxall, the 
governor ” of Thomas Worboise. Her John had been the 


28 


GuUd Court 


possessor of a small landed property, which he farmed himself, 
and upon which they brought up a family of three sons and 
one daughter, of whom Kichard was the eldest, and the daugh- 
ter Lucy the youngest. None of the sons showed the least 
inclination to follow the plow or take any relation more or 
less dignified toward the cultivation of the ancestral acres. 
This aversion, when manifested by Kichard, occasioned his 
father considerable annoyance, but he did not oppose his de- 
sire to go into business instead of farming ; for he had found 
out by this time that he had perpetuated in his sons a certain 
family doggedness which he had inherited from one ancestor 
at least — an obstinacy which had never yet been overcome by 
any argument, however good. He yielded to the inevitable, 
and placed him in a merchant’s office in London, where Rich- 
ard soon made himself of importance. When his second son 
showed the same dislike to draw his livelihood directly from 
the bosom of the earth, and revealed a distinct preference for 
the rival clement, with which he had made some acquaintance 
when at school at a sea-port at no great distance from his home, 
old John Boxall was still more troubled, but gave his consent 
— a consent which was, however, merely a gloomy negation of 
resistance. The cheerfulness of his wife was a great support 
to him under what he felt as a slight to himself and the whole 
race of Boxalls ; but he began, notwithstanding, to look upon 
his beloved fields with a jaundiced eye, and the older he grew 
the more they reminded him of the degenerate tastes and 
heartlessness of his boys. When he discovered, a few years 
after, that his daughter had pledged herself, still in his eyes a 
mere child, to a music-master who visited her professionally 
from the next town, he flew at last into a terrible rage, which 
was not appeased by the girl’s elopement and marriage. He 
never saw her again. Her mother, however, was not long in 
opening a communication with her, and it was to her that 
Edward, the youngest son, fled upon occasion of a quarrel 
with his father, whose temper had now become violent as well 
as morose. He followed his second brother’s examjole, and 
went to sea. _ Still the mother’s cheerfulness was little abated ; 
for, as she said to herself, she had no reason to be ashamed of 
her children. None of them had done any thing they had to 
be ashamed of, and why should she be vexed ? She had no 
idea Lucy had so much spirit in her. And if it were not for 
the old man, who was surely over-fond of those fields of his, 
she could hold up her head with the best of them ; for there 
was Dick — such a gentleman to be sure ! and John, third mate 


More about Guild Court. 


29 


already ! and Cecil Burton sought after in London, to giye his 
lessons, as if he were one of the old masters ! The only thing 
was that the wind blew harder at night since Ned went to sea ; 
and a boy was in more danger than a grown man and a third 
mate like John. 

And so it proved ; for one night when the wind blew a new 
hay-rick of his father’s across three parishes, it blew Edward’s 
body ashore on the west coast. 

Soon after this a neighboring earl, who had the year before 
paid olf a mortgage on his lands, proceeded in natural process 
to enlarge his borders ; and while there was plenty that had 
formerly belonged to the family to repurchase, somehow or 
another took it into his head to begin with what might seem 
more difficult of attainment. But John Boxall was willing 
enough to part with his small patrimony — ^for he was sick of 
it — provided he had a good sum of ready money, and the 
house with its garden and a paddock, by way of luck-penny, 
secured to him for his own life and that of his wife. This was 
easily arranged. But the late yeoman moped more than Qver, 
and died within a twelvemonth, leaving his money to his wife. 
As soon as he was laid in his natural inheritance of land cubi- 
cal, his wife went up to London to her son Richard, who was 
by this time the chief manager of the business of Messrs. 
Blunt & Baker. To him she handed over her money to use 
for the advantage of both. Paying her a handsome percent- 
age, he invested it in a partnership in the firm, and with this 
fresh excitement to his energies, soon became, influentially, 
the principal man in the company. The two other partners 
were both old men, and neither had a son or near relative 
whom he might have trained to fill his place. So in the 
course of a few years, they, speaking commercially, fell asleep, 
and in the course of a few more, departed this life, commer- 
cially and otherwise. It was somewhat strange, however, that 
all this time Richard Boxall had given his mother no written 
acknowledgment of the money she had lent him, and which 
had been the foundation of his fortune. A man’s faults are 
sometimes the simple reverses of his virtues, and not the 
results of his vices. 

When his mother came first to London, he had of course 
taken her home to his house and introduced her to his wife, 
who was a kind and even wnrm-hearted woman. But partly 
from prudence, partly from habit, Mrs. Boxall, senior, would 
not consent to become the permanent guest of Mrs. Boxall, 
junior, and insisted on taking a lodging in the neighborhood. 


30 


Guild Court 


It was not long, however, before she loft the first, and betook 
herself to a second ; nor long again before she left the second, 
and betook herself to a third. For her nature was like a fresh, 
bracing wind, which, when admitted within the precincts of a 
hot-house, where everything save the fire is neglected, proves 
a most unwelcome presence, yea, a dire dismay. Indeed, ad- 
mirably as she had managed and borne v/ith her own family, 
Mrs. Boxall was quite unfit to come into such habitual con- 
tact with another household as followed from her occupying a 
part of the same dwelling. Her faith in what she had tried 
with success herself, and her repugnance to whatever she had 
not been accustomed to, were such that her troublesomencss 
when she became familiar, was equal to the good nature which 
at first so strongly recommended her. Hence her changes of 
residence were frequent. 

Up to the time when he became a sleeping partner, Mr. 
Blunt had resided in Guild Court — that is, the house door was 
in the court, while the lower part of the house, forming the 
offises of the firm, was entered from what was properly a lane, 
though it was called Bagot Street. As soon as mother and 
son heard that Mr. Blunt had at length bought a house in the 
country, the same thought arose in the mind of each — might 
not iMrs. Boxall go and live there ? The house belonged to 
the firm, and they could not well let it, for there was more 
than one available connection between the two portions of the 
building, although only one had lately been in use, a door, 
namely, by which Mr. Blunt used to pass immediately from 
the glass-partitioned part of the counting-house to the foot of 
the oak staircase already described ; while they used two of 
the rooms in the house as places of deposit for old books and 
papers, for which there was no possible accommodation in the 
part devoted to active business. Hence nothing better could 
be devised than that Mrs. Boxall, senior, should take up her 
abode in the habitable region. This she made haste to do, ac- 
companied by a young servant. With her she soon quarreled, 
however, and thereafter relied upon the ministrations of a 
charwoman. The door between the house and the counting- 
house was now locked, and the key of it so seldom taken from 
the drawer of Mr. Boxall, that it came to be regarded almost 
as a portion of the wall. So much for the inner connection of 
Guild Court and Bagot Street. 

Some years after Mrs. Boxall removed to London, Mr. Bur- 
ton, the music-master, died. They had lived from hand to 
mouth, as so many families of uncertain income are compelled 


3Iore about Guild Court 


31 


to do, and liis unexpected death left his wife and child without 
the means of procuring immediate necessities. Inheriting the 
narrowness and prejudices of his descent and of his social po- 
sition to a considerable degree, Mr. Boxall had never come to 
regard his sister’s match with a music-master as other than a 
degradation to the family, and had, in his best humors, never 
got further in the humanities of the kingdom of heaven, than 
to patronize his brother-in-law ; though if size and quality go 
for anything in existence itself, as they do in all its accidents, 
Richard Boxall was scarcely comparable, honest and just man 
as he was, to Cecil Burton ; who, however, except that ho vras 
the father of Lucy, and so in some measure accounts for her, 
is below the western horizon of our story, and therefore need 
scarcely be alluded to again. This behavior of her brother 
was more galling to Mrs. Burton than to her husband, who 
smiled down any allusion to it ; and when she was compelled 
to accept Richard’s kindness in the shape of money, upon the 
death of Mr. Burton, it was with a bitterness of feeling which 
showed itself i)lainly enough to wound the self-love of the 
consciously benevolent man of business. But from the first 
there had been the friendliest relations between the mother 
and daughter, and as it was only from her determination to 
avoid all ground of misunderstanding, that Mrs. Boxall had 
not consented to take up her abode with the Burtons. Conse- 
quently, after the death of Mr. Burton, the mother drew yet 
closer to the daughter, while the breach between brother and 
sister was widened. 

Two years after the death of her husband, Mrs. Burton 
followed him. Then Mrs. Boxall took her grandchild Lucy 
home to Guild Court, and between the two there never arose 
the question of v/hich should be the greater.* It often happens 
that even a severe mother becomes an indulgent grandmother, 
partly from the softening and mellowing influences of time, 
partly from increase of confidence in child-nature generally, 
and perhaps also, in part, from a diminished sense of responsi- 
bility in regard to a child not immediately her own. Hence 
grandparents who have brought up their own children well 
are in danger of spoiling severely those of their sons and 
daughters. And such might have been the case with Mrs. 
Boxall and Lucy, had Lucy been of a more spoilable nature. 
But she had no idea of how much she had her own way, nor 
would it have made any difference to her if she had known 
it. There was a certam wonderful delicacy of moral touch 
about her in the discrimination of what was becoming, as well 


32 


Guild Court, 


as of wliat was riglit, which resulted in a freedom the legalist 
of society would have called boldness, and a restraint 
which the same judge would have designated particularity; 
for Lucy’s ways were not, and could not be, her ways, the one 
fearing and obeying, as she best could, existing laws hard to 
interpret, the other being a law unto herself. The harmonies 
of the music by which, from her earliest childhood, her grow- 
ing brain had beer interpenetrated, had, by her sweet will, 
been transformed into harmonies of thought, feeling, and ac- 
tion. She was not clever, but then she did not think she was 
clever, and therefore it was of no consequence ; for she was 
not dependent upon her intellect for those judgments which 
alone are of importance in the reality of things, and in 
which clever people are just as likely to go wrong as any 
other bo^. She had a great gift in music — a gift which 
Thomas Worboise had never yet discovered, and which, at this 
period of his history, he was incapable of discovering, for he 
had not got beyond the toffee of the drawing-room sentiment 
— the song which must be sent forth to the universe from the 
pedestal of ivory shoulders. But two lines of a ballad from 
Lucy Barton were worth all the music, ‘^She walks in 
beaucy,” included, that Mary Boxall could sing or play. 

Lucy had not seen her cousins for years. Her uncle Ei ch- 
ard, though incapable of being other than satisfied that the 
orphan should be an inmate of the house in Guild Court, could 
not, or at least did not, forget the mildly defiant look with 
which she retreated from his outstretched hand, and took her 
place beside her mother, on the sole occasion on which he 
called upon his sister after her husband’s death. She had 
heard remarks — and being her mother’s, she could not ques- 
tion the justice of them. Hence she had not once, since she 
had taken up her abode with her grandmother, been invited 
to visit her cousins ; and there was no affectation, but in 
truth a little anxiety, in the question she asked Thomas Wor- 
boise about Mary Boxall’s beauty. But, indeed, had she 
given her uncle no such offense, I have every reason to believe 
that her society would not have been much courted by his 
family. When the good among rich relations can be loving 
without condescension, and the good among poor relations can 
make sufficient allowance for the rich, then the kingdom of 
heaven will be nigh at hand. Mr. Boxall shook hands with 
his niece when he met her, asked her after his mother, and 
passed on. 

But Lucy was not dependent on her uncle, scarcely on her 


More about Guild Court 


33 


grandmother, even. Before her mother’s death, almost child 
as she still was, she had begun to give lessons in music to a 
younger child than herself, the daughter of one of her father’s 
favorite pupils, who had married a rich merchant ; and these 
lessons she continued. She was a favorite with the family, 
who were Jews, living in one of the older quarters of the west 
end of London ; and they paid her handsomely, her age and 
experience taken into account. Every morning, except Satur- 
day, she went by the underground railway to give an hour’s 
lesson to Miriam Morgenstern, a gorgeous little eastern, whom 
her parents had no right to dress in such foggy colors as she 
wore. 

I^'ow a long farewell to preliminaries. 

Lucy was just leaving her home one morning to go to her 
pupil, and had turned into the flagged passage which led from 
the archway into the court, when she met a little girl of her 
acquaintance, whom, with her help, I shall now present to my 
readers. She was a child of eight, but very small for her age. 
Her hair was neatly parted and brushed on each side of a large, 
smooth forehead, projecting over quiet eyes of blue, made yet 
quieter by the shadow of those brows. The rest of her face 
was very diminutive. A soberness as of complete womanhood, 
tried and chastened, lay upon her. She looked as if she had 
pondered upon life and its goal, and had made up her little 
mind to meet its troubles with patience. She was dressed in 
a cotton frock printed with blue rose-buds, faded by many 
waters and much soap. When she spoke, she used only one 
side of her mouth for the purpose, and then the old-fash- 
ionedness of her look rose almost to the antique, so that you 
could have fancied her one of the time-belated good people 
leaving the green forest-rings, had wandered into the city and 
become a Christian at a hundred years of age. 

‘‘ Well, Mattie,” said Lucy, ‘^how are you this morning ? ” 
I am quite well, I thank you, miss,” anwered Mattie. I 
don’t call this morning. The church clock struck eleven flve 
minutes ago.” 

This was uttered with a smile from the half of her mouth 
which seemed to say, “1 know you want to have a little fun 
with me by using wrong names for things because I am a little 
girl, and little girls can be taken in ; but it is of no use with 
me, though I can enjoy the joke of it.” 

Lucy smiled too, but not much, for she knew the child. 
What do you call the morning, then, Mattie ? ” she 
asked. 


3 


34 


Guild Court, 


‘Well/’ — slie almost always began her sentences with a Well 
— ‘"I call it morning before the sun is up.” 

But how do you know when the sun is up ? London is so 
foggy, you know, Mattie.” 

Is it ? I didn^t know. Are there places without fog, 
miss ? ” 

Oh, yes ; many.” 

Well, about the sun. I always know what Ms about, 
miss. I’ve got a almanac.” 

‘"But you don’t understand the almanac, do you ?” 

“ Well, I don’t mean to say I understand all about it, but I 
always know what time the sun rises and goes to bed, you 
know.” 

Lucy had found she was rather early for the train, and from 
where she stood she could see the clock of St. Jacob’s, which 
happened to be a reliable one. Therefore she went on to 
amuse herself with the child. 

“ But how is it that we don’t see him, if he gets up when 
the almanac says, Mattie ? ” 

“Well, you see, miss, he sleeps in a crib. And the sides of 
it are houses and churches, and St. Paulses, and the likes of 
that.” 

“Yes, yes ; but some days we see him, and others we don’t. 
We don’t see him to-day, now.” 

“Well, miss, I dare say he’s cross some mornings, and 
keeps the blankets about him after he’s got his head up.” 

Lucy could not help thinking of Milton’s line — for of the 
few poems she knew, one was the “ Ode on the Nativity ” — 

So, when the Sun in bed, 

Curtain’d with cloudy red, 

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave. 

But the child laughed so queerly, that it was impossible to tell 
whether or how much those were her real ideas about the 
sunrise. 

“ How is your father ? ” Lucy asked. 

“Do you mean my father or my mother ?” 

“I mean your father, of course, when I say so.” 

“Yes, but I have a mother, too.” 

Lucy let her have her way, for she did not quite understand 
her. Only she knew that the child’s mother had died two or 
three years ago. 

“ Well,” resumed the child, “my father is quite well, thank 


More about Guild Court 


35 


God ; and so is my mother. There he is, looking down at 
us.” 

‘^Who do you mean, Mattie?” asked Lucy, now be- 
wildered. 

Well, my mother,” answered the child, with a still odder 
half smile. 

Lucy looked up, and saw — hut a little description is neces- 
sary. They were standing, as I have said already, in the 
flagged passage which led to, and post-officially considered, 
formed part of Guild Court. The archway from Bagot Street 
into this passage was as it were tunneled through a house 
facing the street, and from this house a wall, stretching inward 
to the flrst house in the court proper, formed one side of the 
passage. About the middle, this wall broke into two work- 
shops, the smallest and strangest ever seen out of the east. 
There was no roof visible — that lay behind the curtain-wall ; 
but from top to bottom of the wall, a bight of about nine 
feet, there was glass, divided in the middle so as to form two 
windows, one above the other. So likewise on the right-hand 
side of tJie glass were two doors, or hatches, one above the 
other. The tenement looked as if the smallest of rooms bad 
been divided into two horizontally by a floor in the middle, 
thus forming two cells, which could not have been more than 
five feet by four, and four feet in bight. In the lower, how- 
ever, a little hight had been gained by sinking the floor, to 
which a single step led down. In this under cell a cobbler sat, 
hammering away at his lap-stone — a little man, else he could 
hardly have sat there, or even got in without discomfort. 
Every now and then he glanced up at the girl and the child, 
but never omitted a blow in consequence. Over his head, on 
the thin floor between, sat a still smaller man, cross-legged 
like a Turk, busily ‘‘plying his needle and thread.” His hair, 
which standing straight up gave a look of terror to his thin, 
pale countenance, almost touched the roof. It was the only 
luxuriance about him. As plants run to seed, he seemed to 
have run to hair. A calm, keen eye underneath its towering 
forest, revealed observation and peacefulness. He, too, occa- 
sionally looked from his work, but only in the act of drawing 
the horizontal thread, when his eyes had momentary furlough, 
moving in alternate oscillation with his hand. At the moment 
when the child said so, he was looking down in a pause in 
which he seemed for the moment to have forgotten his work 
in his interest in the pair below. He might be forty, or fifty 
or sixty — no one could tell which. 


36 


Guild Court 


Lucy looked up, and said, That is Mr. Spelt ; that is not 
your mother.” 

Well, but I call him my mother. I can’t have two fathers, 
you know. So I call Mr. Spelt my mother ; and so he is.” 

Here she looked up and smiled knowingly to the little tailor, 
who, leaning forward to the window, through which, reaching 
from roof to floor of his cage, his whole form was visible, 
nodded friendlily to the little girl in acknowledgment of her 
greeting. But it was now time for Lucy to go. 

As soon as she had disappeared beyond the archway, Mattie 
turned toward the workshops. Mr. Spelt saw her coming, 
and before she had reached them, the upper half of the door 
was open, and he was stretching down his arms to lift her 
across the shoemaking region, into his own more celestial 
realm of tailoring. In a moment she was sitting in the farth- 
est and snuggest corner, not cross-legged, but with her feet 
invisible in a heap of cuttings, from which she was choosing 
what she would — always with a reference to Mr. Spelt— for 
the dressing of a boy-doll which he had given her. 

This was a very usual proceeding — so much so that Mattie 
and the tailor sat for nearly an hour without a word passing 
between them beyond what sprung from the constructive exi- 
gencies of the child. Neither of them was given to much utter- 
ance, though each had something of the peculiar gift of the 
Ancient Mariner, namely, strange power of speech.” They 
would sit together sometimes for half a day without saying a 
word ; and then again there would bo an oasis of the strangest 
conversation in the desert of their silence — a bad simile, for 
their silence must have been a thoughtful one to blossom into 
such speech. But the first words Mattie uttered on this occa- 
sion, were of a somewhat mundane character. She heard a 
footstep pass below. She was too far back in the cell to see 
who it was, and she did not lift her eyes from her work. 

When the cat’s away, the mice will play,” she said. 

What are you thinking about, Mattie ? ” asked the tailor. 

Well, wasn’t that Mr. Worboise that passed ? Mr. Box- 
all must be out. But he needn’t go there, for somebody’s 
always out this time o’ day.” 

What do you mean, Mattie ? ” again asked the tailor. 

^^Well, perhaps you don’t understand such things, Mr. 
Spelt, not being a married man.” 

Poor Mr. Spelt had had a wife who had killed herself by 
drinking all his earnings ; but perhaps Mattie knew nothing 
about that. 


More about Guild Court. 


37 


more I am. You must explain it to me.” 

Well, you see, young people will be young people.” 

Who told you that ?” 

Old Mrs. Boxall says so. And that’s why Mr. Worboise 
goes to see Miss Burton, I know. I told you so,” she added, 
as she heard his step returning. But Thomas bore a huge 
ledger under his arm, for which Mr. Stopper had sent him 
round to the court. Very likely, however, had Lucy been at 
home, he might have laid a few minutes more to the account 
of the errand. 

So, so ! ” said the tailor. That’s it, is it, Mattie ? ” 

Yes ; but we don’t say anything about such things, you 
know.” 

Oh, of course not,” answered Mr. Spelt ; and the conver- 
sation ceased. 

After a long pause, the child spoke again. 

Is God good to you to-day, mother ? ” 

Yes, Mattie. God is always good to us.” 

But he’s better some days than others, isn’t he ? ” 

To this question the tailor did not know what to reply, and 
therefore, like a wise man, did not make the attempt. He 
asked her instead, as he had often occasion to do with Mattie, 
what she meant. 

Don’t you know what I mean, mother ? Don’t you know 
God’s better to us some days than others ? Yes ; and he’s 
better to some people than he is to others.” 

I am sure he’s always good to you and me, Mattie.” 

‘^Well, yes; generally.” 

Why don’t you say always f ” 

Because I’m not sure about it. How to-day it’s aU very 
well. But yesterday the sun shone in the window a whole hour. ” 

And I drew down the blind to shut it out,” said Mr. Spelt, 
thoughtfully. 

^^Well,” Mattie went on, without heeding her friend’s 
remark, he could make the sun shine every day, if he liked. 
— I suppose he could,” she added, doubtfully. 

I don’t think we should like it, if he did,” returned Mr. 
Spelt, ^^for the drain down below smells bad in the hot 
weather.” 

But the rain might come — at night, I mean, not in the 
day-time, and wash them all out. Mightn’t it, mother ? ” 

Yes ; but the heat makes people ill. And if you had such 
hot weather as they have in some parts, as I am told, you 
would be glad enough of a day like this.” 


38 


Guild Court 


Well, why hayen’t they a day like this, when they want 
it ? ” 

‘^God knows,” said Mr. Spelt, whose magazine was nearly 
exhausted, and the enemy pressing on vigorously. 

‘^Well, that’s what I say. God knows, and why doesn’t he 
help it?” 

And Mr. Spelt surrendered, if silence was surrender. Mat- 
tie did not press her advantage, however, and the besieged 
plucked up heart a little. 

I fancy perhaps, Mattie, he leaves something for us to do. 
You know they cut out the slop-work at the shop, and I can’t 
do much more with that but put the pieces together. But 
when a repairing job comes in, I can contrive a bit then, and 
I like that better.” 

Mr. Spelt’s meaning was not very clear, either to himself or 
to Mattie. But it involved the shadow of a great truth — that 
all the discords we hear in the universe around us, are God’s 
trumpets sounding a reveille to the sleeping human will, which 
once working harmoniously with his, will soon bring all things 
into a pure and healthy rectitude of operation. Till a man 
has learned to be happy without the sunshine, and therein 
becomes capable of enjoying it perfectly, it is well that the 
shine and the shadow should be mingled, so as God only knows 
how to mingle them. To effect the blessedness for which 
God made him, man must become a fellow-worker with 
God. 

After a little while Mattie resumed operations. 

“But you can’t say, mother, that God isn’t better to some 
people than to other people. He’s surely gooder to you and 
me than he is to Poppic.” 

“Who’s Poppie?” asked Mr. Spelt, sending out a flag of 
negotiation. 

“Well, there she is — down in the gutter, I suppose, as 
usual,” answered Mattie, without lifting her eyes. 

The tailor peeped out of his house-front, and saw a bare- 
footed child in the court below. What she was like I shall 
take a better opportunity of informing my reader. For at 
this moment the sound of strong nails tapping sharply reached 
the ear of Mr. Spelt and his friend. The sound came from a 
window just over the archway, hence at right angles to Mr. 
Spelt’s workshop. It was very dingy with dust and smoke, 
allowing only the outline of a man’s figure to be seen from the 
court. This much Poppie saw, and taking the tapping to be 
intended for her, fled from the court on soundless feet. But 


More about Guild Court, 


39 


Mattie rose at once from lier corner, and, laying aside cnttings 
and doll, stuck her needle and thread carefully in the bosom 
of her frock, saying : 

‘‘That’s my father a-wanting of me. I wonder what he 
wants now. I’m sure I don’t know how he would get on 
without me. And that is a comfort. Poor man I he misses 
my mother more than I do, I believe. He’s always after me. 
Well, I’ll see you again in the afternoon if I can. And, if 
not, you may expect me about the same hour to-morrow.” 

While she thus spoke she was let down from the not very 
aiiy hight of the workshop on to the firm pavement below ; 
the tailor stretching his arms with her from above, like a bird 
of prey with a lamb in his talons. The last words she spoke 
from the ground, her head thrown back between her shoulders 
that she might look the tailor in the face, who was stooping 
over her like an angel from a cloud in the family Bible. 

“Very well, Mattie,” returned Mr. Spelt ; “you know your 
own corner well enough by this time, I should think.” 

So saying, he drew himself carefully into his shell, for the 
place was hardly more, except that he could just work without 
having to get outside of it first. A soft half smile glimmered 
on his face; for although he was so used to Mattie’s old- 
fashioned ways, that they scarcely appeared strange to him 
now, the questions that she raised were food for the little 
tailor’s meditation — all day long, upon occasion. For some 
tailors are given to thinking, and when they are they have 
good opportunity of indulging their inclinations. And it is 
wonderful what a tailor’s thinking may come to, especially if 
he reads his Hew Testament. How, strange perhaps to tell, 
though Mr. Spelt never went to church, he did read his Hew 
Testament. And the little tailor was a living soul. He was 
one of those few who seem to be born with a certain law of 
order in themselves, a certain tidiness of mind, as it were, which 
would gladly see all the rooms or regions of thought swept 
and arranged ; and not only makes them orderly, but prompts 
them to search after the order of the universe. They would 
gladly believe in the harmony of things; and although the 
questions they feel the necessity of answering take the crudest 
forms and the most limited and individual application, they 
yet are sure to have something to do with the laws that govern 
the world. Hence it was that the pai-tial misfit of a pair of 
moleskin or fustian trowsers— for seldom did his originality 
find nobler material to exercise itself upon — ^would make him 
quite miserable, even though the navvy or dock-laborer might 


40 


Guild Court 


be perfectly satisfied with the result, and ready to pay the 
money for them willingly. But it was seldom, too, that he 
had even such a chance of indulging in the creative element 
of the tailor’s calling, though he might have done something 
of the sort, if he would, in the way of altering. Of that 
branch of the trade, however, he was shy, knowing that it was 
most frequently in request with garment unrighteously come 
by ; and Mr. Spelt’s thin hands were clean. 

He had not sat long after Mattie left him, before she reap- 
peared from under the archway. 

Ho, no, mother,” she said, I ain’t going to perch this 
time. But father sends his compliments, and will you come 
and take a dish of tea with him and me this afternoon ? ” 
^^Yes, Mattie; if you will come and fetch me when the 
tea’s ready.” 

Well, you had better not depend on me ; for I shall have 
a herring to cook, and a muffin to toast, besides the tea to 
make and set on the hob, and the best china to get out of the 
black cupboard, and no end o’ things to see to.” 

But you needn’t get out the best china for me, you know.” 
“ Well, I like to do what’s proper. And you just keep 
your eye on St. Jacob’s, Mr. Spelt, and at five o’clock, when 
it has struck two of them, you get down and come in, and 
you’ll find your tea a-waiting of you. There ! ” 

With which conclusive form of speech, Mattie turned and 
walked back through the archway. She never ran, still less 
skipped as most children do, but held feet and head alike 
steadily progressive, save for the slightest occasional toss of 
the latter, which, as well as her mode of speech, revealed the 
element of conceit which had its share in the oddity of the 
little damsel. 

When two strokes of the five had sounded in the ears of Mr. 
Spelt, he laid his work aside, took his tall hat from one of the 
corners where it hung on a peg, leaped lightly from his perch 
into the court, shut his half of the door, told the shoemaker 
below that he was going to Mr. Kitely’s to tea, and would be 
obliged if he would fetch him should anyone want him, and 
went through the archway. There was a door to Mr. Kitely’s 
house under the archway, but the tailor preferred going 
round the corner to the shop door in Bagot Street. By this 
he entered Jacob Kitely’s domain, an old book-shop, of which 
it required some previous knowledge to find the way to the 
back premises. For the whole cubical space of the shop was 
divided and subdivided into a labyrinth of book-shelves, those 


More about Guild Court 


41 


in front filled with decently if not elegantly bound books, and 
those behind with a multitude innumerable of books in all 
conditions of dinginess, mustiness, and general shabbiness. 
Among these J acob Kitely spent his time patching and mend- 
ing them, and drawing up catalogues. He was not one of 
those booksellers who are so fond of their books that they can- 
not bear to part with them, and therefore when they are for- 
tunate enough to lay their hands upon a rare Yolume, the 
highest pleasure they know in life, justify themselves in keep- 
ing it by laying a manuscript price upon it, and considering it 
so much actual property. Such men, perhaps, know some- 
thing about the contents of their wares ; but while few sur- 
passed Jacob in a knowledge of the outside of books, from the 
proper treatment of covers in the varying stages of dilapida- 
tion, and of leaves when water-stained or mildewed or dry- 
rotted to the different values of better and best editions, cut 
and uncut leaves, tall copies, and folios shortened by the 
plow into doubtful quartos, he never advanced beyond the 
title-page, except when one edition differed from another, and 
some examination was necessary to determine to which the 
copy belonged. And not only did he lay no fancy prices upon 
his books, but he was proud of selling them under the market 
value — which he understood well enough, though he used the 
knowledge only to regulate his buying. The rate at which he 
sold was determined entirely by the rate at which he bought. 
Do not think, my reader, that I have the thinnest ghost of a 
political economy theory under this : I am simply and only 
describing character. Hence he sold his books cheaper than 
any other bookseller in London, contenting himself with a 
profit proportioned to his expenditure, and taking his pleas- 
ure in the rapidity with which the stream of books flowed 
through his shop. I have known him take threepence off the 
price he had first affixed to a book, because he found that he 
had not advertised it, and therefore it had not to bear its 
share of the expense of the catalogue. 

Mr. Spelt made his way through the maze of books into the 
back shop, no one confronting him, and there found Mr. 
Kitely busy over his next catalogue, which he was making out 
in a school-boy’s hand. 

How are you. Spelt ? ” he said, in an alto voice, in which 
rung a certain healthy vigor, amounting to determination. 

Just in time, I believe. My little woman has been busy in 
the parlor for the last hour, and I can depend upon her to the 
minute. Step in.” 


42 


Guild Court 


Don’t let me interrupt you,” suggested Mr. Spelt, meekly, 
and reverentially even, for he thought Mr. Kitely must be a 
very learned man indeed to write so much about books, and 
had at home a collection of his catalogues complete from the 
year when he first occupied the nest in the passage. I had 
forgot to say that Mr. Kitely was Mr. Spelt’s landlord, and 
found him a regular tenant, else he certainly would not have 
invited him to tea. 

Don’t let me interrupt you,” said Mr. Spelt. 

‘^Not at all,” returned Mr. Kitely. ''I’m very happy to 
see you. Spelt. You’re very kind to my Mattie, and it pleases 
both of us to have you to tea in our hunible way.” 

His humble way was a very grand way indeed to poor Spelt — 
and Mr. Kitely knew that. Spelt could only rub his nervous, 
delicate hands in token that he would like to say something in 
reply if he could but find the right thing to say. What hands 
those were, instinct with life and expression to the finger nails ! 
No hands like them for fine-drawing. He would make the 
worst rent look as if there never had been a rough contact 
with the nappy surface. 

The tailor stepped into the parlor, which opened out of the 
back shop sideways, and found himself in an enchanted region. 
A fire — we always see the fire first, and the remark will mean 
more to some people than to others — a most respectable fire 
burned in the grate, and if the room was full of the odor of 
red herrings, possibly objectionable per se, where was the harm 
when they were going to partake of the bloaters ? A conse- 
quential cat lay on the hearth-rug. A great black oak cabi- 
net, carved to repletion of surface, for which a pre-Eaphaelite 
painter would have given half the price of one of his best 
pictures, stood at the end of the room. This was an accident, 
for Mr. Kitely could not appreciate it. But neither would he 
sell it when asked to do so. He was not going to mix trades, 
for that was against his creed; the fact being that he had 
tried so many things in his life that he now felt quite respect- 
able from having settled to one for the rest of his days. But 
the chief peculiarity of the room was the number of birds that 
hung around it in cages of all sizes and shapes, most of them 
covered up now that they might go to sleep. 

After Mattie had bestowed her approbation upon Mr. Spelt 
for coming exactly to the hour, she took the brown tea-pot 
from the hob, the muffin from before the fire, and three 
herrings from the top of it, and put them all one after another 
upon the table. Then she would have placed chairs for them 


3Iore about Guild Court 


43 


all, bnt was prevented by the gallantry of Mr. Spelt, and only 
succeeded in carrying to the head of the table her own high 
chair, on which she climbed np, and sat enthroned to pour out 
the tea. It was a noteworthy triad. On opposite sides of the 
table sat the meek tailor and the hawk-expressioned bookseller. 
The latter had a broad forehead and large, clear, light eyes. 
His nose — I never think a face described when the nose is for- 
gotten : Chaucer never omits it — rose from between his eyes 
as if intending to make the true Eoman arch, but having 
reached the keystone, held on upon the same high level, and 
did not descend, but ceased. He wore no beard, and bore his 
face in front of him like a banner. A strong pediment of 
chin and a long, thin-lipped mouth completed an expression 
of truculent good nature. Plenty of cleai*-voiced speech, a 
breezy defiance of nonsense in every tone, bore in it a certain 
cold but fierce friendliness, which would show no mercy to 
any weakness you might vaunt, but would drag none to the 
light you abstained from forcing into notice. Opposite to him 
sat the thoughtful, thin-visaged, small man, with his hair on 
end ; and between them the staid, old-maidenly child, with 
her hair in bands on each side of the smooth solemnity of her 
face, the conceit of her gentle nature expressed only in the 
turn-up of her diminutive nose. The bookseller behaved to 
her as if she had been a grown lady. 

^‘How, Miss Kitely,” he said, ‘‘we shall have tea of the 
right sort, shan’t we ?” 

“ I hope so,” answered Mattie, demurely. “Help Mr. Spelt 
to a herring, father.” 

“That I will, my princess. There, Mr. Spelt! There’s a 
herring with a roe worth millions. To think, now, that every 
one of those eggs would be a fish like that, if it was only let 
alone I” 

“It’s a great waste of eggs, ain’fc it, father ?” said Mattie. 

“ Mr. Spelt won’t say so, my princess,” returned Mr. Kitely, 
laughing. “ He likes ’em.” 

“ I do like them,” said the tailor. 

“Well, I dare say they’re good for him, and it don’t hurt 
them much,” resumed Mattie, reflectively. 

“They’ll go to his brains, and make him clever,” said 
Kitely. “And you wouldn’t call that a waste, would you, 
Mattie ? ” 

“ Well, I don’t know. I think Mr. Spelt’s clever enough 
already. He’s too much for me sometimes. I confess I can’t 
always follow him.” 


44 


Guild Court 


The father burst into a loud roar of laughter, and laughed 
till the tears were running down his face. Spelt would have 
joined him but for the reverence he had for Mattie, who sat 
unmoved on her throne at the head of the table, looking down 
with calm benignity on her father’s passion, as if laughter 
were a weakness belonging to grown-up men, in which they 
were to be condescendingly indulged by princesses, and littb 
girls in general. 

Well, how’s the world behaving to you. Spelt ? ” asked the 
bookseller, after various ineffectual attempts to stop his laugh- 
ter by the wiping of his eyes. 

The world has never behaved ill to me, thank God,” an- 
swered the tailor. 

Now, don’t you trouble yourself to say that. You’ve got 
nobody to thank but yourself.” 

‘‘But I like to thank God,” said Mr. Spelt, apologetically. 
“I forgot that you wouldn’t like it.” 

“ Pshaw ! pshaw ! I don’t mind it from you, for I believe 
you’re fool enough to mean what you say. But, tell me this. 
Spelt — did you thank God when your wife died ? ” 

“I tried hard not. I’m afraid I did, though,” answered 
Spelt, and sat staring like one who has confessed, and awaits 
his penance. 

The bookseller burst into another loud laugh, and slapped 
his hand on his leg. 

“You have me there, I grant. Spelt.” 

But his face grew sober as he added, in a lower but still loud 
voice — 

“ I was thinking of my wife, not of yours. Folk say she was 
a rum un.” 

“She was a splendid woman,” said the tailor. “She 
weighed twice as much as I do, and her fist — ” Here he 
doubled up his own slender hand, laid it on the table, and 
stared at it, with his mouth full of muffin. Then, with a 
sigh, he added, “ She was rather too much for me, sometimes. 
She was a splendid woman, though, when she was sober.” 

“And what was she when she was drunk ? ” 

This grated a little on the tailor’s feelings, and he answered 
with spirit — 

“A match for you or any other man, Mr. Kitely.” 

The bookseller said, “Bravo, Spelt !” and said no more. 

They went on with their tea for some moments in silence. 

“Well, princess !” said Mr. Kitely at last, giving an aim- 
less poke to the conversation. 


More about Guild Court 


45 


Well, father,” returned Mattie. 

Whereupon her father turned to Spelt and said, as if resum- 
ing what had passed before — 

Now tell me honestly. Spelt, do you belieye there is a 
God ?” 

don’t doubt it.” 

And I do. Will you tell me that, if there was a God, he 
would have a fool like that in the church over the way there, 
to do nothing but read the service, and a sermon he bought 
for eighteenpence, and — ” 

From you ? ” asked Spelt, with an access of interest. 

No, no. I was too near the church for that. But he 
bought it of Spelman, in Holywell Street. Well, what was I 
saying ? ” 

You was telling us what Mr. Potter did for his money.” 

^^Y’es, yes. I don’t know anything else he does but 
stroke his Piccadilly weepers, and draw his salary. Only I 
suppose they have some grand name for salary nowadays, out 
of the Latin Grammar or the Roman Antiquities, or some such, 
to make it respectable. Don’t tell me there’s a God, when he 
puts a man like that in the pulpit. To hear him haw-haw ! ” 

The bookseller’s logic was, to say the least of it, queer. But 
Spelt was no logician. He was something better, though in a 
feeble way. He could jump over the dry-stone fences and the 
cross-ditches of the logician. He was not one of those who 
stop to answer arguments against going home, instead of mak- 
ing haste to kiss their wives and children. 

I have read somewhere — in a book I dare say you ma3na’t 
have in your collection, Mr. Kitely — they call it the New Tes- 
tament — ” 

There was not an atom of conscious humor in the tailor as 
he said this. He really thought Mr. Kitely might have con- 
scientious scruples as to favoring the sale of the New Testa- 
ment. Kitely smiled, but said nothing. 

^^Pve read” — the tailor went on— that God winked at 
some people’s ignorance. I dare say he may wink at Mr. 
Potter’s.” 

Anyhow, I wouldn’t like to be Mr. Potter,” said the book- 
seller. 

No, nor I,” returned Spelt. But just as I* let that poor 
creature. Dolman, cobble away in my ground-floor — though he 
has never paid me more than half his rent since ever he 
took it — ” 

Is that the way of it ? Whew ! ” said Mr. Kitely. 


46 


Guild Court 


About and about it,” answered the tailor. ^^But that’s 
not the ]3oint.” 

What a fool you are then, Spelt, to — ” 

Mr. Kitely,” interposed the tailor with dignity, do I pay 
your rent ? ” 

You’ve got my receipts, I believe,” answered the book- 
seller, offended in his turn. 

Then I may make a fool of myself, if I please,” returned 
Spelt, with a smile which took all offense out of the remark. 

I only wanted to say that perhaps God lets Mr. Potter hold 
the living of St. Jacob’s in something of the same way that I 
let poor Dolman cobble in my ground-floor. ISTo offense, I 
hope.” 

‘^None whatever. You’re a good-natured, honest fellow. 
Spelt ; and don’t distress yourself, you know, for a week or so. 
Have half a herring more ? I fear this is a soft roe.” 

No more, I thank you, Mr. Kitely. But all the clergy 
ain’t like Mr. Potter. Perhaps he talks such nonsense because 
there’s nobody there to hear it.” 

There’s plenty not there to do something for for his 
money,” said Kitely. 

That’s true,” returned the tailor. But seeing I don’t go 
to church myself, I don’t see I’ve any right to complain. Do 
you go to church, Mr. Kitely ? ” 

should think not,^^ answered the bookseller. But 
there’s some one in the shop.” 

So saying, he started up and disappeared. Presently voices 
were heard, if not in dispute, yet in difference. 

You won’t oblige me so far as that, Mr. Kitely?” 

No, I won’t. I never pledge myself. I’ve been too often 
taken in. No offense. A man goes away and forgets. Send 
or bring the money, and the book is yours ; or come to-morrow. 
I dare say it Y/on’t be gone. But I won’t promise to keep it. 
i There!” 

5 Very well, I won’t trouble you again in a hurry.” 

^^That is as you please, sir,” said the bookseller, and no 
reply followed. 

‘‘That’s Mr. AYorboise,” said Mattie, “I wish father 
wouldn’t be so hard upon him.” 

“I don’t like that young man,” said Kitely, reentering. 
“My opinion is that he’s a humbug.” 

“ Miss Burton does not think so,” said Mattie, quietly. 

“Eh, what, princess ?” said her father. “ Eh ! ah ^ well I 
well!” 


47 


The Morning of Christmas Day, 

‘^You don’t give credit, Mr. Kitely?” said the tailor. 

‘^No, not to my own father. I don’t know, though, if I 
had the old boy back again, now he’s dead. I didn’t behave 
over well to him, I’m afraid. I wonder if he’s in the moon, 
or where he is, Mr. Spelt, eh ? I should like to believe in God 
now, if it were only for the chance of saying to my father, 
^ I’m sorry I said so-and-so to you, old man.’ Do you think 
he’ll have got over it by this time. Spelt ? You know all about 
those things. But I won’t have a book engaged and left and 
not paid for. I’d rather give credit and lose it, and have done 
with it. If young Worboise wants the book he may come for 
it to-morrow.” 

He always pays me — and pleasantly,” said Spelt. 

‘^Of course,” said Mattie. 

‘‘I don’t doubt it,” said her father; ^‘but I like things 
neat and clean. And I don’t like him. He thinks a deal of 
himself.” 

Surely he’s neat and clean enough,” said Spelt. 

Now, you don’t know what I mean. A man ought always 
to know what another man means before he makes his remarks. 
I mean, I like a book to go out of my sight, and the price of 
it to go into my pocket, right slick off. But here’s Dolman 
come to fetch you. Spelt,” said the bookseller, as the cobbler 
made his appearance at the half -open door of the parlor. 

‘^No, I ain’t,” said Dolman. only come to let the 

guv’nor know as I’m a going home.” 

^nYhere’s that ?” asked Kitely. 

Leastways, I mean going home with a pair o’ boots,” 
answered Dolman, evasively, wiping his nose with the back of 
his hand. 

Ah !” said the bookseller. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE MOEHIHG OF CHEISTMAS DAT. 

It is but justice to Thomas Worboise to mention that he 
made no opportunities of going to his ^'governor’s ” house 
after this. But the relations of the families rendered it im- 
possible for him to avoid seeing Maiy Boxall sometimes. Nor 


48 


Guild Court 


did lie make any great effort to eyade such meetings : and it 
must be confessed that it was not without a glow of inward 
satisfaction that he saw her confusion and the rosy tinge that 
spread over her face and deepened the color of her eyes when 
they thus happened to meet. For Mary was a soft-hearted 
and too impressible girl. never said anything to her,” 

were the words with which he would now and then apply an 
unction to his soul, compounded of self-juptification and self- 
flattery. But he could not keep an outward appearance of 
coolness correspondent to the real coldness of his selfish heart, 
and the confusion which was only a dim reflection of her own 
was siifficient to make poor Mary suppose that feelings similar 
to her own were at work in the mind of the handsome youth. 
Why he did not say anything to her had not yet begun to 
trouble her, and her love was as yet satisfied with the ethereal 
luxuries of dreaming and castle-building. 

It had been arranged between Amy Worboise and the Boxall 
girls, that if Christmas Day were une, they would persuade 
their fathers to go with them to Hampstead Heath in the 
morning. How much of this arrangement was owing to sly 
suggestion on the part of Mary in the hope of seeing Tom, I 
do not know. I believe Jane contrived that Charles Wither 
should have a hint of the possibility. It is enough that the 
plan was accepted by the parents, and that the two families, 
with the exception of Mrs. Boxall, who could not commit the 
care of the Christmas dinner to the servants, and the invalid 
Mrs. Worboise, who, indeed, would always have preferred the 
chance of a visit from Mr. Simon to the certainty of sunshine 
and extended prospect, found themselves, after morning ser- 
vice, on the platform of the Highbury railway station, whence 
they soon reached Hampstead. 

The walk from the station, up the hill to the top of the 
heath, was delightful. It was a clear day, the sun shining 
overhead, and the ground sparkling with frost under their 
feet. The keen, healthy air brought color to the cheeks and 
light to the eyes of all the party, possibly with the sole excep- 
tion of Mr. Worboise, who, able to walk uncovered in the 
keenest weather, was equally impervious to all the gentler in- 
fluences of Nature. He could not be said to be a disbeliever 
in Nature, for he had not the smallest idea that she had any 
existence beyond an allegorical one. What he did believe in 
was the law, meaning by that neither the Mosaic nor the 
Christian, neither the law of love nor the law of right, but 
the law of England as practiced in her courts of justice. 


49 


The Morning of Christmas Day. 

Therefore he was not a very interesting person to spend a 
Christmas morning with, and he and Mr. Boxall, who was 
equally a believer in commerce, were left to entertain each 
other. 

Mary Boxall was especially merry ; Amy Worhoise roguish 
as usual ; J ane Boxall rather silent, but still bright-eyed, for 
who could tell whom she might meet upon the heath ? And 
with three such girls Tom could not be other than gay, if not 
brilliant. True, Lucy was alone with her old grandmother in 
dingy Guild Court ; but if she loved him, was not that enough 
to make her or any other woman happy ? And he could not 
help it, besides. And why should he not improve the shining 
hour because Lucy had no flowers to gather honey from ? Be- 
sides, was he not going to meet her the very next day, after 
much contrivance for concealment ? So he was resolved to be 
merry and ^^freuen sich des Lebens.” 

They reached the flag-staff. The sun was getting low, and 
clouds were gathering behind him. Harrow-on-the-Hill was 
invisible, but the reservoir gleamed coldly far across the heath. 
A wind v/as blowing from the northwest ; all London lay south 
and east in clearness wonderful, for two or three minutes. 
Then a vapor slowly melted away the dome of St. Paul’s, and, 
like a spirit of sorrow, gathered and gathered till that which 
was full of life to those who were in it, was but a gray cloud 
to those that looked on from the distant hight. Already the 
young people felt their spirits affected, and as if by a common 
impulse, set off to walk briskly to the pines above the Span- 
iards.” They had not gone far, before they met Charles 
Wither sauntering carelessly along — at least he seemed much 
surprised to see them. He turned and walked between J ane 
and Amy, and Mary and Tom were compelled to drop behind, 
so as not to extend their line unreasonably and occupy the 
whole path. Quite unintentionally on Tom’s part, the distance 
between the two divisions increased, and when he and Mary 
reached the pines, the rest of the party had vanished. They 
had in fact gone down into the Vale of Health, to be out of the 
wind, and return by the hollow, at the suggestion of Charles 
Wither, vdio wished thus to avoid the chance of being seen by 
Mr. Boxall. When he had taken his leave of them, just as 
they came in sight of the flag-staff, where Mr. Worhoise and 
Mr. Boxall had appointed to meet them on their return from the 
pines, Jane begged Amy to say nothing about having met him. 

Oh,” said Amy, with sudden and painful illumination, ‘‘ I 
am so sorry to have been in the way.” 

4 


50 


GuUd Court 


On the contrary, dear Amy, I should not have known 
what to say to papa, except you had been with me. I am so 
much obliged to you.” 

Thus there was clearly trouble in store for Mr. Boxall, who 
had never yet known what it was not to have his own way — in 
matters which he would consider of importance at least. 

The two gentlemen had gone into Jack Straw’s to have a 
glass of wine together, in honor of Christmas Day ; and while 
tliey were seated together before a good fire, it seemed to Mr. 
Boxall a suitable opportunity for entering on a matter of business. 

What will you say to me, Worboise, when I tell you that 
I have never yet made a will ? ” 

‘‘I needn’t tell you what I think, Boxall. You know well 
enough. Very foolish of you. Very imprudent, indeed. And 
I confess I should not have expected it of you, although I had 
a shrewd suspicion that such was the case.” 

How came you to suspect it ? ” 

To tell the truth; I could not help thinking that as our 
friendship was not of yesterday, you would hardly have asked 
any one else to draw up your will but your old friend. So you 
see it was by no mysterious exercise of intelligence that I came 
to the conclusion that, not being an unkind or suspicious man, 
you must be a dilatory, and, excuse me, in this sole point, a 
loolish man.” 

I grant the worst vou can say, but you shall say it only till 
to-morrow — that is, if you will draw up the will, and have it 
ready for me to sign at any hour you may be at leisure for a 
call from me.” 

I can’t undertake it by to-morrow ; but it shall be ready 
by the next day at twelve o’clock.” 

That will do perfectly. I must remain ‘ a foolish man ’ 
for twenty-four hours longer — that is all.” 

You won’t be much the worse for that, except you have 
an attack of apoplexy to fix you there. But, joking apart, 
give me my instructions. May I ask how much you have to 
leave?” 

Oh ; somewhere, off and on, about thirty thousand. It 
isn’t much, but I hope to double it in the course of a few 
years, if things go on as they are doing.” 

Mr. Worboise had not known so much about his friend’s 
affairs as he had pretended to his son. When he heard the 
amount, he uttered a slight Whew ! ” But whether it meant 
that the sum fell below or exceeded his expectations, he gave 
Mr. Boxall no time to inquire. 


51 


T1}£ Morning of Christmas Day. 

And how do you want the sum divided ? ” he asked. 

I don’t want it divided at all. There’s no occasion what- 
ever to mention the sum. The books will show my property. 
I want my wife, in the case of her surviving me, to have the 
whole of it.” 

And failing her ? ” 

My daughters, of course — equally divided. If my wife 
lives, there is no occasion to mention them. I want them to 
be dependent upon her as long as she lives, and so hold the 
family together as long as possible. She knows my wishes 
about them in everything. I have no secrets from her.” 

have only to carry out instructions. I have no right to 
offer any suggestions.” 

That means that you would suggest something. Speak 
out, man.” 

Suppose your daughters wished to marry ?” 
leave all that to their mother, as I said. They must be 
their oAvn mistresses some day.” 

‘‘ Well, call on me the day after to-morrow, and I shall have 
the draught at least ready.” 

When the two girls reached the flag-staff, their parents 
were not there. Jane was glad of this, for it precluded ques- 
tioning as to the point whence they had arrived. As they 
stood waiting, large snow-flakes began to fall, and the wind 
was rising. But they had not to wait long before the gentle- 
men made their appearance, busily conversing, so busily, in- 
deed, that when they had Joined the girls, they walked away 
toward the railway station without concerning themselves to 
ask what had become of Mary and Thomas. 

When they reached the railway station, Mr. Boxall became 
suddenly aware that two of their party were missing. 

Why, Jane, where’s Mary ? And where’s Tom ? Where 
did you leave them ? ” 

Somewhere about the pines. I thought they would have 
been back long ago.” 

The two fathers looked at each other, and each seeing that 
the other looked knowing, then first consented, as he thought, 
to look knowing himself. 

Well,” said Mr. Worboise, they’re old enough to take 
care of themselves, I suppose. I vote we don’t wait for 
them.” 

Serve them right,” said Mr. Boxall. 

^^Oh, don’t, papa,” interposed Jane. 

Well, Jane, will you stop for them ?” said her father. 


62 


Guild Court 


But a sudden light that flashed into Jane’s eyes made him 
change his tone. He did not knov why, hut the idea of 
Charles Wither rose in his mind, and he made haste to preyent 
Jane from taking adyantagc of the proposal. 

^^Come along,” he said. ‘^Let them take care of them- 
selyes. Come along.” 

The suspicion had crossed him more than once, that Mr. 
Wither and Jane possibly contrived to meet without his 
knowledge, and the thought made him writhe with jealousy; 
for it lay in his nature to be jealous of everyone of whom liis 
wife or his daughters spoke well — ^that is, until he began to 
like him himself, when the jealousy, or what was akin to it, 
vanished. But it was not jealousy alone that distressed him, 
but the anxiety of real love as well. 

By the time they reached Camden Eoad station, the ground 
was covered with snow. 

When Tom and Mary arrived at the pines, I have said they 
found that the rest of their party had gone. 

Oh, never mind,” said Mary, merrily ; let us run down 
into the hollow, and wait till they come back. I dare say 
they are not far off. They will never go without us.” 

Partly from false gallantry, jDartly from inclination, Thomas 
agreed. They descended the bank of sand in a quite opposite 
direction from that taken by Jane and her companions, and 
wandered along down the heath. By this time the sky was 
all gray and white. Long masses of vapor were driving over- 
head with jagged upper edges. They looked like lines of 
fierce warriors stooping in their eager rush to the battle. But 
down in the hollows of the heath all was still, and they wan- 
dered on for some time without paying any heed to the signs 
of the coming storm. Hoes my reader ask what they talked 
about ? Nothing worthy of record, I answer ; although every 
word that Thomas uttered seemed to Mary worth looking into 
for some occult application of the sort she would gladly have 
heard more openly expressed. At length, something cold fell 
upon her face, and Thomas glancing that moment at her 
countenance, saw it lying there, and took it for a tear. She 
looked up : the sky was one mass of heavy vapor, and a multi- 
tude of great downy snow-flakes was settling slowly on the 
earth. In a moment they were clasped hand in hand. The 
pleasure of the snow, the excitement of being shut out from 
the visible, or rather the seeing world, wrapped in the skirts 
of a storm with a pretty girl for his sole companion, so wrought 
upon Thomas, who loved to bo moved and hated to will, that 


53 


Tlie Morning of Christmas Day, 

lie forgot Lucy, and stood in delight gazing certainly at the 
falling snow, and not at Mary Boxall, but holding her hand 
tight in his OAvn. She crept closer to him, for a little gentle 
fear added to her pleasure, and in a moment more his arm was 
about her — to protect her, I dare say, he said to himself. 

Now, be it understood that Thomas was too much in love 
with himself to he capable of loving any woman under the sun 
after a noble and true fashion. He did not love- Lucy a great 
deal better than he loved Mary. Only Mary was an ordinary 
pretty blonde, and Lucy was dark, with great black eyes, and 
far more distinguished in appearance than Mary. Besides, she 
was poor, and that added greatly to the romance of the thiug ; 
for it made it quite noble in him to love her, and must make 
her look up to him with such deserved admiration, that — 
without reckoning the fact that the one was offered him, and 
the other only not forbidden because there was as yet no 
suspicion of his visits in Gruild Court — there was positively no 
room to hesitate in choice between them. Still the preference 
was not strong enough to keep his heart from beating fast 
when he found the snow-storm had closed him in with Maiy. 
He had sense enough, however, to turn at once in order to 
lead her back toward the road. But this was already a matter 
of difficulty, for there was no path Avhere the storm found 
them, and with the gathering darkness the snow already hid 
the high road across the heath ; so that the first question was 
in what direction to go to find it. They kept moving, how- 
ever, Mary leaning a good deal on Tom’s arm, and getting 
more and more frightened as no path came in view. ^ Even 
Tom began to be anxious about what was to come of it, and 
although he did his best to comfort Mary, he soon found that, 
before the least suspicion of actual danger, the whole romance 
had vanished. And now the snow not only fell rapidly, but 
the wind blew it sharply in their faces, and blinded them yet 
more than merely with its darkness — not that this mattered 
much as to the finding the way, for that was all hap-hazard 
long ago. 

After wandering, probably in a circuitous fashion, for more 
than an hour, Mary burst out crying, and said she could not 
walk a step farther. She would have thrown herself down had 
not Tom prevented her. With the kindest encouragement — 
though he was really down-hearted himself— he persuaded her 
to climb a little bight near them, which with great difficulty 
she managed to do. From the top they saw a light, and 
descending the opposite side of the hill, found themselves in a 


54 


Guild Court 


road, where an empty cab stood by the door of a public-house. 
After trying to persuade Mary to have some refreshment, to 
which she refused to listen, insisting on being taken to hei 
mother, Thomas succeeded in getting the cabman to drive 
them to the station. In the railway carriage, Mary lay like 
one dead, and although he took off both his coats to wrap 
about her, she seemed quite unconscious of the attention. It 
was with great difficulty that she reached her home ; for there 
was no cab at the hackney station, and the streets were by this 
time nearly a foot deep in snow. 

Thomas was not sorry to give her up to her mother. She 
immediately began to scold him. Then Mary spoke for the 
first time, saying, with great effort : 

Don’t, mother. If it had not been for Thomas, I should 
have been dead long ago. He could not help it. Hood-night, 
Tom.” 

And she feebly held up her face to kiss him. Tom stooped 
to meet it, and went away feeling tolerably miserable. He 
was wet and cold. The momentary fancy for Mary was quite 

f one out of him, and he could not help seeing that now he had 
issed her before her mother he had got himself into a scrape. 
Before morning Mary was in a raging fever. 

That night Charles Wither spent at a billiard-table in Lon- 
don, playing, not high but long, sipping brandy and water all 
the time, and thinking what a splendid girl Jane Boxall was. 
But in the morning he looked all right. 


ho-#- 


CHAPTER VII. 

POPPIE. 

Thomas woke the next morning with a well-deserved sense 
of something troubling him. This too was a holiday, but he 
did not feel in a holiday mood. It was not from any fear that 
Mary might be the worse for her exposure, neither was it from 
regret for his conduct toward her. What made him uncom- 
fortable was the feeling rather than thought that now Mrs. 
Boxall, Mary’s mother, had a window that overlooked his 
premises, a window over which he had no legal hold, but 
which, on the contrary, gave her a hold over him. It was a 


55 


Popple, 

window, also, of wliicli slie was not likely, as lie thonglit, to 
neglect the advantage. Nor did it console him to imagine 
what Lncy would think, or — which was of more weight with 
Thomas — say or do, if she should happen to hear of the affair 
of yesterday. This, however, was very unlikely to happen ; for 
she had not one friend in common with her cousins, except 
just her lover. To-day being likewise a holiday, he had ar- 
ranged to meet her at the Marble Arch, and take lier to that 
frightful source of amusement, Madame Tussaud’s. Her 
morning engagement led her to that neighborhood, and it was 
a safe place to meet in — far from Highbury, Hackney, and 
Bagot Street. 

The snow was very deep. Mrs. Boxall tried to persuade 
Lucy not to go. But where birds can pass, lovers can pass, 
and she was just finishing her lesson to resplendent little 
Miriam as Thomas got out of an omnibus at Park Street, that 
he might saunter up on foot to the Marble Arch. 

The vision of Hyde Park was such as rarely meets the eye 
of a Londoner. It was almost grotesquely beautiful. Even 
while waiting for a lovely girl, Thomas could not help taking 
notice of the trees. Every bough, branch, twig, and shoot 
supported a ghost of itself, or rather a white shadow of itself 
upon the opposite side from where the black shadow fell. The 
whole tree looked like a huge growth of that kind of coral 
they call brain-coral, and the whole park a forest of such co- 
ralline growths. But against the sky, which was one canopy 
of unfallen snow, bright with the sun behind it, the brilliant 
trees looked more like coral still, gray namely, and dull. 

Thomas had not sauntered and gazed for more than a few 
minutes before he saw Lucy coming down Great Cumberland 
Street toward him. Instead of crossing the street to meet her, 
he stood and Avatched her approach. There was even some 
excuse for his coolness, she looked so picturesque flitting over 
the spotless white in her violet dress, her red cloak, her grebe 
muff. I do not know Avhat her bonnet was ; for if a bonnet 
be suitable, it allows the face to show as it ought, and v/ho 
can think of a bonnet then ! But I know that they were a 
pair of very dainty morocco boots that made little holes in the 
snow across Oxford Street toward the Marble Arch where 
Thomas stood, filled, I fear, with more pride in the lovely fig- 
ure that Avas coming to him than love of her. 

Have I kept you waiting long, Thomas ? ’’ said Lucy, with 
the sweetest of smiles, her teeth white as snoAV in the summer 
flush of her face, 


66 


Guild Court 


Oil ! about ten minutes,” said Thomas. It wasn’t five. 
^^Wliat a cold morning it is !” 

I don’t feel it much,” answered Lucy. I came away the 
first moment I could. I am sorry I kept you waiting.” 

Don’t mention it, Lucy. I should be only too happy to 
wait for you as long every morning,” said Thomas, gallantly, 
no' ' '■ ' 



But what could she do ? A 


tone is one of the most difficult things to fix a complaint 
upon. Besides, she was not in a humor to complain of any 
thing if she could help it. And, to tell the truth, she was a 
little afraid of offending Thomas, for she looked up to him ten 
times more than he deserved. 

How lovely your red cloak looked — quite a splendor — cross- 
ing the snow ! ” he continued. 

And Lucy received this as a compliment to herself, and 
smiled again. She took his arm— for lovers will do that 
sometimes after it is quite out of fashion. But, will it be be- 
lieved ? Thomas did not altogether like her doing so, just 
because it was out of fashion. 

‘MVhat a delightful morning it is,” she said. ^^Oh! do 
look at the bars of the railing.” 

Yes, I see. The snow has stuck to them. But how can 
you look at such vulgar things as iron stanchions when you 
nave such a fairy forest as that before you ? ” said the reader 
of Byron, who was not seldom crossed by a feeling of dismay 
at finding Lucy, as he thought, decidedly unpoetical. He 
wanted to train her in poetry, as, with shame let it flow from 
my pen, in religion. 

But just look here,” insisted Lucy, drawing him closer to 
the fence. You are short-sighted, surely, Thomas. Just 
look there.” 

Well, I see nothing but snow on both sides of the paling- 
bars,” returned Thomas. 

‘^Kow I ani sure you are short-sighted. It is snow on the 
one side, but not on the other. Look at the loVely crystals.” 

On the eastern quarter of each upright bar the snow had 
accumulated and stuck fast to the depth of an inch : the wind 
had been easterly. The fall had ceased some hours before 
morning, and a strong frost had set in. That the moisture in 
the air should have settled frozen upon the iron would not 
have been surprising ; what Lucy wondered at was, that there 
should be a growth, half an inch long, of slender crystals, like 
the fungous gro^yth corantonly qallec^ mol^ only closer, 


Popjpie. 57 

standing out from tlie bar horizontally, as if they had grown 
through it, out of the soil of the snow exactly opposite to it on 
the other side. On the one side was a beaten mass of snow, 
on the other a fantastic little forest of ice. 

do not care about such microscopic beauties,” said 
Thomas, a little annoyed that she whom he thought unpoeti- 
cal could find out something lovely sooner than he could ; for 
he was of those in whom a phantasm of self-culture is one of 
the forms taken by their selfishness. They regard this culture 
in relation to others with an eye to superiority, and do not 
desire it purely for its own sake. Those trees are much 
more to my mind, now.” 

Ah, but I do not love the trees less. Come into the park, 
and then we can see them from all sides.” 

The snow is too deep. There is no path there.” 

I don’t mind it. My boots are very thick.” 

^^ISTo, no; come along. We shall get to Madame Tus- 
saud’s before there are many people there. It will be so much 
nicer.” 

- I should like much better to stay here awhile,” said Lucy, 
half vexed and a little offended. 

But Thomas did not heed her. He led the way up Oxford 
Street. She had dropped his arm, and now walked by his 
side. 

A nice lover to have ! ” I think I hear some of my girl 
readers say. But he was not so bad as this always, or even 
gentle-tempered Lucy would have quarreled with him, if it 
had been only for the sake of getting rid of him. The weight 
of yesterday was upon him. And while they were walking up 
the street, as handsome and fresh a couple as you would find 
in all London, Mary was lying in her bed talking wildly about 
Thomas. 

Alas for the loving thoughts of youth and maidens, that go 
out like the dove from the ark, and find no room on the face 
of the desired world to fold their wings and alight ! Olive- 
leaves they will gather in plenty, even when they are destined 
never to build a nest in the branches of the olive tree. Let 
such be strong notwithstanding, even when there are no more 
olive-leaves to gather, for God will have mercy upon his youths 
and maidens, and they shall grow men and women. Let who 
can understand me. 

Having thus left the beauties of nature behind them for the 
horrible mockery of art at Madame Tussaud’s, Thomas became 
aware from Lucy’s silence that he had not been behaving well 


58 


Guild Court 


to her. He therefore set about being more agreeable, and be- 
fore they reached Baker Street she had his arm again, and they 
were talking and laughing gayly enough. Behind them, at 
some distance, trotted a small apj)arition which I must now 
describe. 

It was a little girl, perhaps ten years old, looking as Yv^ild as 
any savage in Canadian forest. Her face was pretty, as far as 
could be judged through the dirt that variegated its surface. 
Her eyes were black and restless. Her dress was a frock, of 
what stuff it would have been impossible to determine, scarcely 
reaching below her knees, and rent upward into an irregular 
fringe of ribbons that frostily fanned her little legs as she fol- 
lowed the happy couple, in a pair of shoes much too large for 
her, and already worn into such holes as to afford more refuge 
for the snow than for her feet. Her little knees were very 
black, and oh ! those poor legs, caked and streaked with 
dirt, and the delicate skin of them thickened and cracked with 
frost and east winds and neglect ! They could carry her 
through the snow satisfactorily, however — with considerable 
suffering to themselves, no doubt. But Poppie was not bound 
to be miserable because Poppie’s legs were anything but com- 
fortable ; there is no selfishness in not being sorry for one’iS 
own legs. Her hair, which might have been expected to be 
quite black, was mingled with a reddish tinge from exposure 
to the hot sun of the preceding summer. It hung in tanglea 
locks about her, without protection of any sort. How strange 
the snow must have looked upon it ! No doubt she had 
been out in the storm. Her face peeped out from among 
it with the wild innocence of a gentle and shy but 
brave little animal of the forest. Purposely she followed 
Lucy’s red cloak. But this was not the first time she had fol- 
lowed her ; like a lost pup, she would go after this one and 
that one — ^generally a lady — for a whole day from place to 
place, obedient to some hidden drawing of the heart. She had 
often seen Lucy start from Guild Court, and had followed her 
to the railway ; and, at length, by watching first one station 
mid then another, had found out where she went every morn- 
ing. Knowing then that she could find her when she pleased, 
she did not follow her more than twice a week or so, sometimes 
not once — just as the appetite woke in her for a little of her 
society.^ But my reader must see more of her before he or she 
will be interested enough in her either to please me or to care 
to hear more about the habits of this little wild animal of the 
stone forest of London. She had never seen Lucy with a gen- 


59 


Poppie, 

tleman before. I wonder if she had ever in her little life 
walked side by side with anybody herself ; she was always trot- 
ting behind. This was the little girl whom Miss Matilda 
Kitely, her father’s princess, called Poppie, and patronized, al- 
though she was at least two years older than herself, as near as 
could be guessed. Nor had she any other name ; for no one 
knew where she had come from, or who were her parents, and 
she herself cared as little about the matter as anybody. 

The lovers were some distance ahead of Poppie, as they had 
been all the w^, when they entered the passage leading to the 
wax works. The instant she lost sight of them so suddenly, 
Poppie started in pursuit, lost one of her great shoes, and, in- 
stead of turning to pick it up, kicked the other after it — no great 
loss — and scampered at full barefooted speed over the snow, 
which was here well trodden. They could hardly have more than 
disappeared at the further end when she arrived at the entrance. 

Poppie never thought about might or might not, but only 
about could or could not. So the way being open, and she 
happening to have no mind that morning to part with her com- 
pany before she was compelled, she darted in to see whether 
she could not get another peep of the couple. Not only was the 
red cloak a fountain of warmth to Poppie’s imagination, but 
the two seemed so happy together that she felt in most desira- 
ble society. 

Thomas was in the act of paying for admission at the turn- 
stile, when she caught sight of them again. The same m^ 
ment that he admitted them, the man turned away from his 
post. In an instant Poppie had crept through underneath, 
dodged the man, and followed them, taking care, however, 
not to let them see her, for she had not the smallest desire 
to come to speech with them. 

The gorgeousness about her did not produce much effect 
upon Poppie’s imagination. What it might have produced was 
counteracted by a strange fancy that rose at once under the 
matted covering of that sunburnt hair. She had seen more 
than one dead man carried home upon a stretcher. She had 
seen the miserable funerals of the poor, and the desolate coffin 
put in the earth. But she knew that of human beings there 
were at least two very different breeds, of one of which she 
knew something of the habits and customs, while of the other 
she knev/ nothing, except that they lived in great houses, from 
which they were carried aw^ay in splendid black carriages, 
drawn by ever so many horses, with great black feathers grow- 
ing out of their heads. What became of them after that she 


60 


Guild Court, 


had not the smallest idea, for no doubt they would be disposed 
of in a manner very dilferent from the funerals she had 
been allowed to be present at. When she entered the wax- 
work exhibition the question was solved. This was one of the 
places to which they carried the grand people after they were 
dead. Here they set them up, dressed in their very best, to 
stand there till— ah, till when, Poppie ? That question she 
made no attempt to answer. She did not like the look of the 
dead people. She thought it a better way to put them in the 
earth and have done with them, for they had a queer look, as if 
they did not altogether like the affair themselves. And when 
one of them stared at her, she dodged its eyes, and had enough 
to do between them all and the showman ; for though Popj)ie 
was not afraid of anybody, she had an instinctive knowledge 
that it was better to keep out of some people’s way. She fol- 
lowed the sight of her friend, however, till the couple went into 
the chamber of horrors,” as if there was not horror enough 
in seeing humanity imitated so abominably in the outer room. 

Yes, I am sorry to say it, Lucy went into that place, but 
she did not know what she was doing, and it was weeks before 
she recovered her self-respect after it. However, as Thomas 
seemed interested, she contrived to endure it for a little while 
— ^to endure, I do not mean the horror, for that was not very 
great — but the vulgarity of it all. Poppie lingered, not dar- 
ing to follow them, and at length, seeing a large party arrive, 
began to look about for some place of refuge. In the art of 
vanishing she was an adept, with an extraordinary proclivity 
toward holes and corners. In fact, she could liardly see a 
hole big enough to admit her without darting into it at once 
to see if it would do — for what, she could not have specified 
— but for general purposes of refuge. She considered all such 
places handy, and she found one handy now. 

Close to the entrance, in a recess, was a couch, and on this 
couch lay a man. He did not look like the rest of the dead 
people, for his eyes were closed. Then the dead people went 
to bed sometimes, and to sleep. Happy dead people — in a bed 
like this ! For there was a black velvet cover thrown over the 
sleeping dead man, so that nothing but his face was visible ; 
and to the eyes of Poppie this pall looked so soft, so comfort- 
able, so enticing ! It was a place to dream in. And could 
there be any better hiding-place than this ? If the man was 
both dead and sleeping, he would hardly object to having her 
for a companion. But as she sent one parting j)eep round the 
corner of William Pitt or Dick Turpin, after her friends, ere 


Poppie, 61 

she forsook them to lie down with the dead, one of the attend- 
ants caught sight of her, and advanced to expel the dangerous 
intruder. Poppie turned and fled, sprang into the recess, 
crept under the cover, like a hunted mouse, and lay still, the 
bed-fellow of no less illustrious a personage than the Duke of 
Wellington, and cold as he must have been, Poppie found him 
warmer than her own legs. The man never thought of fol- 
lowing her in that direction, and supposed that she had 
escaped as she had managed to intrude. 

Poppie found the place so comfortable that she had no in- 
clination to change her quarters in haste. True, it was not 
nice to feel the dead man when she put out foot or hand ; but 
then she need not put out foot or hand. And Poppie was not 
used to feeling warm. It was a rare sensation, and she found 
it delightful. Every now and then she peeped from under the 
mortcloth — ^for the duke was supposed to be lying in state — to 
see whether Thomas and Lucy were coming. But at length, 
what with the mental and physical effects of warmth and com- 
fort combined, she fell fast asleep, and dreamed she was in a 
place she had been in once before, though she had forgotten 
all about it. Erom the indeflnite account she gave of it, I can 
only conjecture that it was the embodiment of the vaguest 
memory of a motherly bosom ; that it was her own mother’s 
bosom she recalled even thus faintly, I much doubt. But 
from this undefined bliss she was suddenly aroused by a rough 
hand and a rough voice loaded with a curse. Poppie was used 
to curses, and did not mind them a bit — somehow they never 
hurt her — ^but she was a little frightened at the face of indig- 
nant surprise and wrath which she saw bending over her when 
she awoke. It was that of one of the attendants, with a police- 
man beside him, for whom he had sent before he awoke the child, 
allowing her thus a few moments of unconscious blessedness, with 
the future hanging heavy in the near distance. But the duke 
had slept none the less soundly that she was by his side, and had 
lost none of the warmth that she had gained. It was well for 
Ruth that there were no police when she slept in Boaz’s barn ; still 
better that some of the clergymen, who servo God by reading 
her story on the Sunday, were not the magistrates before 
whom the police carried her. With a tight grasp on her arm, 
Poppie was walked away in a manner uncomfortable certainly 
to one who was accustomed to trot along at her own sweet 
will — and a sweet will it was, that for happiness was content 
to follow and keep within sight of some one that drew her, 
without longing for even a word of grace — ^to what she had 


62 


Guild Court 


learned to call the jug, namely, the police prison ; but my 
reader must not spend too much of his stock of sympathy upon 
Poppie ; for she did not mind it much. To be sure in such 
weather the jug was very cold, but she had the memories of 
the past to comfort her, the near past, spent in the society of 
the dead duke, warm and consoling. When she fell asleep on 
the hard floor of the lock-up, she dreamed that she was dead 
and buried, and trying to be warm and comfortable, as she 
ought to be in her grave, only somehow or another she could 
not get things to come right ; the wind would blow through 
the chinks of her pauper’s coffin ; and she wished she had been 
a duke or a great person generally, to be so grandly buried as 
they were in the cemetery in Baker Street. But Poppie was 
far less to be pitied for the time, cold as she was, than Mary 
Boxall, lying half asleep and half awake and all dreaming in 
that comforffible room, with a blazing fire, and her own mother 
sitting beside it. True, likewise, Poppie heard a good many 
bad words and horrid speeches in the jug, but she did not heed 
them much. Indeed, they did not even distress her, she was 
so used to them ; nor, upon occasion, was her own language 
the very pink of propriety. How could it be ? The vocabu- 
lary in use in the houses she knew had ten vulgar words in it 
to one that Mattie, for instance, would hear. But whether 
Poppie, when speaking the worst language that ever crossed 
her lips, was lower, morally and spiritually considered, than 
the young lord in the nursery, who, speaking with articulation 
clear cut as his features, and in language every vrord of which 
is to be found in Johnson, refuses his brother a share of his 
tart and gobbles it up himself, there is to me, knowing that if 
Poppie could swear she could share, no question whatever. 
God looks after his children in the cellars as well as in the 
nurseries of London. 

Of course she was liberated in the morning, for the police 
magistrates of London are not so cruel as some of those coun- 
try clergymen who, not content with preaching about the jus- 
tice of God from the pulpit, must seat themselves on the 
magistrate’s bench to dispense the injustice of men. If she 
had been brought before some of them for sleeping under a 
hay-stack, and having no money in her pocket, as if the night 
sky, besides being a cold tester to lie under, were something 
wicked as well, she would have been sent to prison ; for, in- 
stead of believing in the blessedness of the poor, they are of 
Miss Kilmansegg’s opinion, ‘‘that people with nought are 
naughty.” The poor little thing was only reprimanded for 


63 


Mr. SimorCs Attempt. 

being where she had no business to he, and sent away. But 
it was no wonder if, after this adventure, she should know 
Thomas again when she saw him ; nay, that she should some- 
times trot after him for the length of a street or so. But he 
never noticed her. 


CHAPTER YIIL 

MR. SIMOM’S attempt. 

The next day the sun shone brilliantly upon the snow as 
Thomas walked to the counting-house. He was full of pleas- 
ant thoughts, crossed and shadowed by a few of a different 
kind. He was not naturally deceitful, and the sense of hav- 
ing a secret which must get him into trouble if it were dis- 
covered, and discovered it must be some day, could not fail to 
give him uneasiness notwithstanding the satisfaction which 
the romance of the secrecy of a love affair afforded him. 
Nothing, however, as it seemed to him, could be done, for he 
was never ready to do anything to which he was neither led 
nor driven. He could not generate action, or, rather, he had 
never yet begun to generate action. 

As soon as he reached Bagot Street, he tapped at the glass 
door, and was admitted to Mr. Boxall’s room. He found 
him with a look of anxiety upon a face not used to express 
that emotion. 

I hope Miss Mary — ” Thomas began, with a little hesita- 
tion. 

She’s very ill,” said her father, ^^very ill, indeed. It was 
enough to be the death of her. Excessively imprudent.” 

Now Mary had been as much to blame, if there was any 
blame at all, for the present results of the Christmas morning, 
as Thomas ; but he had still generosity enough left not to say 
so to her father. 

I am very sorry,” he said. We were caught in the snow, 
and lost our way.” 

Yes, yes, I know. I oughtn’t to be too hard upon young 
people,” returned Mr. Boxall, remembering, perhaps, that he 
had his share of the blame in leaving them so much to them- 
selves. 


64 


Guild Court 


only hope she may get through it. But she’s in a bad 
way. She was quite delirious last night.” 

Thomas was really concerned for a moment, and Ipoked so. 
Mr. Boxall saw it, and spoke more kindly. 

trust, however, that there is not any immediate danger. 
It’s no use you coming to see her. She can’t see anybody but 
the doctor.” 

This was a relief to Thomas. But it was rather alarming 
to find that Mr. Boxall clearly expected him to want to go to 
see her. 

I am very sorry,” he said again ; and that was all he could 
find to say. 

‘'Well, well,” returned his master, accepting the words as 
if they had been an apology. “We must do our work, any- 
how. Business is the first thing, you know.” 

Thomas took this as a dismissal, and retired to the outer 
office, in a mood considerably different from that which Mr. 
Boxall attributed to him. 

A clerk’s duty is a hard one, and this ought to be acknowl- 
edged. Neither has he any personal interest in the result of the 
special labor to which he is for the time devoted, nor can this la- 
bor have much interest of its own beyond what comes of getting 
things square, and the sense of satisfaction which springs from 
activity, and the success of completion. And it is not often 
that a young man is fortunate enough to have a master who 
will not only appreciate his endeavors, but will let him know 
that he does appreciate them. There are reasons for the latter 
fact beyond disposition and temperament. The genial em- 
ployer has so often found that a strange process comes into 
operation in young and old, which turns the honey of praise 
into the poison of self-conceit, rendering those to whom it is 
given disagreeable, and ere long insufferable, that he learns to 
be very chary in the administration of the said honey, lest 
subordinates think themselves indispensable, and even neglect 
the very virtues which earned them the praise. A man must 
do his duty, if he would be a free man, whether he likes it or 
not, and whether it is appreciated or not. But if he can re- 
gard it as the will of God, the work not fallen upon him by 
chance, but given him to do, understanding that every thing 
well done belongs to His kingdom, and every thing ill done to 
the kingdom of darkness, surely even the irksomeness of his 
work will be no longer insuperable. But Thomas had never 
been taught this. He did not know that his day’s work had 
anything to do with the saving of his soul. Poor Mr. Simon 


65 


Mr. Simon's Attempt 

gave him of what he had, like his namesake at the gate of the 
temple, but all he had served only to make a man creep; it 
could not make him stand up and walk. A servant with 
this clause,” — that is the clause, ‘^for thy saJee ,^^ — wrote 
George Herbert : 

“ A servant with this clause 
Makes drudgery divine ; 

Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws, 

Makes that and the action fine.” 

But Mr. Simon could not understand the half of this, and 
nothing at all of the essential sacredness of the work which 
God would not give a man to do if it were not sacred. Hence 
Thomas regarded his work only as drudgery ; considered 
it beneath him ; judged himself fitter for the army, and had 
hankerings after gold lace. He dabbled with the fancy that 
there was a mistake somewhere in the arrangement of mun- 
dane affairs, a serious one, for was he not fitted by nature to 
move in some showy orbit, instead of being doomed to rise in 
Highbury, shine in Bagot Street, and set yet again in High- 
bury ? And so, although he did not absolutely neglect his 
work, for he hated to be found fault with, he just did it, not 
entering into it with any spirit ; and as he was clever enough, 
things went on with tolerable smoothness. 

That same evening, when he went home from his German 
lesson of a quarter of an hour, and his interview with Lucy of 
an hour and a quarter, he found Mr. Simon with his motlicr. 
Thomas would have left the room ; for his conscience now 
made him wish to avoid Mr. Simon — who had pressed him so 
hard with the stamp of religion that the place was painful, 
although the impression was fast disappearing. 

Thomas,” said his mother, with even more than her usual 
solemnity, Thomas, come here. We want to have some con- 
versation with you.” 

‘‘ I have not had my tea yet, mother.” 

You can have your tea afterward. I wish you to come 
here now.” 

Thomas obeyed, and threw himself with some attempt at 
nonchalance into a chair. 

‘‘Thomas, my friend,” began Mr. Simon, with a tone— how 
am I to describe it ? I could easily, if I chose to use a con- 
temptuous word, but I do not wish to intrude on the region of 
the comic satirist, and must therefore use a periphrase— with 
5 


66 


Guild Court 


the tone which corresponds to the long face some religious 
people assume the moment the conversation turns toward 
sacred things, and in which a certain element of the ludicrous, 
because affected, goes far to destroy the solemnity, I am un- 
easy about you. Do not think me interfering, for I watch for 
your soul as one that must give an account. I have to give an 
account of you, for at one time you were the most promising 
seal of my ministry. But your zeal has grown cold ; you are 
unfaithful to your first love ; and when the Lord cometh as 
a thief in the night, you will be to him as one of the luke- 
warm, neither cold nor hot, my poor friend. He will spue you 
out of his mouth. And I may be to blame for this, though at 
present I know not how. Ah, Thomas ! Thomas ! Do not let 
me have shame of you at his appearing. The years are fleet- 
ing fast, and although ho delay his coming, yet he will come ; 
and he will slay his enemies with the two-edged sword that 
proceedeth out of his mouth.” 

Foolish as Mr. Simon was, he was better than Mr. Potter, if 
Mr. Kitely’s account of him was correct ; for he was in earn- 
est, and acted upon his belief. But he knew nothing of human 
nature, and as I’homas grew older, days, even hours, had 
widened the gulf between them, till his poor feeble influences 
could no longer reach across it, save as unpleasant reminders 
of something that had been. Happy is the youth of whom a 
sensible, good clergyman has a firm hold — a firm human 
hold, I mean — not a priestly one, such as Mr. Simon’s. But 
if the clergyman be feeble and foolish, the worst of it is, that 
the youth will transfer his gi’owing contempt for the clergy- 
man to the religion of which he is such a poor representative. 
I know another clergyman — perhaps my readers may know 
him too — who, instead of lecturing Thomas through the me- 
dium of a long string of Scripture phrases, which he would 
have had far too much reverence to use after such a fashion, 
would have taken him by the shoulder, and said, “ Tom, my 
boy, you’ve got something on your mind. I hope it’s nothing 
wrong. But whatever it is, mind you come to me if I can be 
of any use to you.” 

To such a man there would have been a chance of Tom’s 
making a clean breast of it — not yet, though — not before he 
got into deep water. But Mr. Simon had not the shadow of 
a chance of making him confess. How could Thomas tell 
such a man that he was in love with one beautiful girl, and 
had foolislily got himself into a scrape with another ? 

By this direct attack upon him in the presence of his 


67 


Mr, Simon's Attempt 

mother, the man had lost the last remnant of his influence 
over him, and, in fact, made him feel as if he should like to 
punch his head, if it were not that he could not bear to hurt 
the meek little sheep. He did not know that Mr. Simon had 
been rather a bruiser at college — small and meek as he was — 
only that was before his conversion. If he had cared to defend 
himself from such an attack, which I am certain he would 
not have doubled fist to do, Thomas could not have stood one 
minute before him. 

Why do you not speak, Thomas said his mother, gently. 

What do you want me to say, mother ?” asked Thomas 
in return, with rising anger. He never could resist except his 
temper came to his aid. 

‘^Say what you ought to say,” returned Mrs. Worboise, 
more severely. 

What ought I to say, Mr. Simon ? ” said Thomas, with a 
tone of mock submission, not so marked, however, that Mr. 
Simon, who was not sensitive, detected it. 

Say, my young friend, that you will carry the matter to 
the throne of grace, and ask the aid — ” 

But I would rather not record sacred words which, whatever 
they might mean in Mr. Simon’s use of them, mean so little 
in relation to my story. 

Thomas, however, was not yet so much of a hypocrite as his 
training had hitherto tended to make him, and again he sat 
silent for a few moments, during which his mother and her 
friend sat silent likewise, giving him time for reflection. 
Then he spoke, anxious to get rid of the whole unpleasant aflair. 
will promise to think of what you have said, Mr. Simon.” 

Yes, Thomas, but hoio will you think of it ? ” said his 
mother. 

Mr. Simon, however, glad to have gained so much of a 
concession, spoke more genially. He would not drive the 
matter further at present. 

‘^Do, dear friend, and may He guide you into the truth. 
Eemember, Thomas, the world and the things of this world 
are passing away. You are a child no longer, and are herewith 
called upon fco take your part, for God or against him—” 

And so on, till Thomas grew weary as well as annoyed. 

‘^Will you tell me what fault you have to find with me ?” 
he said at last. I am regular at the Sunday-school, I am sure.” 

^^Yes, that we must allow, and heartily,” answered Mr. 
Simon, turning to Mrs. Worboise as if to give her the initia- 
tive, for he thought her rather hard with her son ; ^‘only I 


68 


GuUd Court 


would just suggest to you, Mr. Thomas — I don’t ask you the 
question, hut 1 would have you ask yourself — ^whether your 
energy is equal to what it has been ? Take care lest, while 
you teach others, you yourself should be a castaway. Remem- 
ber that nothing but faith in the merits — ” 

Thus started again, he went on, till Thomas was forced loose 
from all sympathy with things so unmercifully driven upon 
him, and vowed in his heart that he would stand it no longer. 

Still speaking, Mr. Simon rose to take his leave, Thomas, 
naturally polite, and anxious to get out of the scrutiny of those 
cold blue eyes of his mother, went to open the door for him, 
and closed it behind him with a sigh of satisfaction. Then 
he had his tea and went to his own room, feeling wrong, and 
yet knowing quite well that he was going on to be and to do 
wrong. Saintship like his mother’s and Mr. Simon’s was out 
of his reach. 

Perhaps it was. But there were other things essential to 
saintship that were within his reach — and equally essential to 
the manliness of a gentleman, which he would have been con- 
siderably annoyed to be told that he was in much danger of 
falling shoi-t of, if he did not in some way or other mend his 
ways, and take heed to his goings. 

The next morning mother and pastor held a long and, my 
reader will believe, a dreary consultation over the state of 
Thomas. I will not afflict him with a recital of what was said 
and resaid a dozen times before they parted. If Mr. Worboise 
had overheard it, he would have laughed, not heartily, but 
with a perfection of contempt, for he despised all these things, 
and would ha^e despised better things, too, if he had known 
them. 

The sole result was that his mother watched Thomas with 
yet greater assiduity; and Thomas began to feel that her 
eyes were never off him, and to dislike them because he feared 
them. He felt them behind his back. They haunted him in 
Bagot Street. Happy with Lucy, even there those eyes fol- 
lowed him, as if searching to find out his secret ; and a vague 
fear kept growing upon him that the discovery was at hand. 
Hence he became more and more cunning to conceal his visits. 
He dreaded what questions those questioning eyes might set 
the tongue asking. For he had not yet learned to lie. He 
prevaricated, no doubt ; but l}dng may be a step yet further on 
the downward road. 

One good thing only came out of it all : he grew mc«e and 
more in love with Lucy. He almost loved her. 


Business. 


69 


CHAPTER IX. 

BUSINESS. 

For some days Mr. Boxall was so uneasy about Mary that 
he forgot his appointment with Mr. Worboise. At length, 
however, when a thaw had set in, and she had begun to 
improve, he went to call upon his old friend. 

‘‘Ah, Boxall! glad to see you. What a man you are to 
make an appointment with I Are you aware, sir, of the value 
of time in London, not to say in this life generally ? Are you 
aware that bills are due at certain dates, and that the man who 
has not money at his banker’s to meet them is dishonored — 
euphemistically shifted to the bill 

Thus jocosely did Mr. Worboise play upon the well-known 
business habits of his friend, who would rather, or at least 
believed he would rather, go to the scaffold than allow a bill of 
his to be dishonored. But Mr. Boxall was in a good humor, 
too, this morning. 

“At least, Worboise,” he answered, “I trust when the said 
bill is dishonored, you may not be the holder.” 

“Thank you. I hope not. I don’t like losing money.” 

“Oh, don’t mistake me I I meant for my sake, not yours.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you would skin the place before you took the 
pound of flesh. I know you 1 ” 

Mr. Worboise winced. Mr. Boxall thought he had gone too 
far, that is, had been rude. But Mr. Worboise laughed aloud. 

“You flatter me, Boxall,” he said. “ I had no idea I was 
such a sharp practitioner. But you ought to know best. 
We’ll take care, at all events, to have this will of yours right.” 

So saying, he went to a drawer to get it out. But Mr. Box- 
all still feared that his friend had thought him rude. 

“ The fact is,” he said, “ I have been so uneasy about Mary.” 

“Why? What’s the matter ?” interrupted Mr. Worboise, 
stopping on his way across the room. 

“Don’t you know ?” returned Mr. Boxall, in some surprise. 
“ She’s never got over that Hampstead Heath affair. She’s 
been in bed ever since.” 

“ God bless me I” exclaimed the other. “I never heard a 
word of it. What was it ? ” 

So Mr. Boxall told as much as he knew of the story, and 
any way there was not much to tell. 


70 


Guild Court 


^^ISTever lieard a word of it !” repeated the lawyer. 

The statement made Mr. Boxall more uneasy than he cared 
to show. 

But I must be going,” he said ; so let’s have this trouble- 
some will signed and done with.” 

Not in the least a troublesome one, I assure you. Bather 
too simple, I think. Here it is.” 

And Mr. Worboise began to read it oyer point by point to 
his client. 

^^All right,” said the latter. ^^Mrs. Boxall to have every- 
thing to do with it as she pleases. It is the least I can say, 
for she has been a good wife to me.” 

And will be for many years to come, I hope,” said Mr. 
Worboise. 

I hope so. Well, go on.” 

Mr. Worboise went on. 

All right,” said his client again. Failing my wife, my 
daughters to have everything, as indeed they will whether my 
wife fails or not — at last, I mean, for she would leave it to 
them, of course.” 

Well,” said the lawyer, '^and who comes next ? ” 

‘^Nobody. Who do you think ?” 

^Ht’s rather a short — doesn’t read quite business-like. Put 
in any body, just for the chance — a poor one, ha ! ha ! with such 
a fine family as yours.” 

Stick yourself in then, old fellow ; and though it won’t do 
you any good, it will be an expression of my long esteem and 
friendship for you. ” 

What a capital stroke ! ” thought Mr. Boxall. I’ve 
surely got that nonsense out of his head now. He’ll never 
think of it more. I was country-bred.” 

Thank you, old friend,” said Mr. Worboise, quietly, and 
entered his own name in succession. 

The will was soon finished, signed, and witnessed by two of 
Mr. Worboise’s clerks. 

Now what is to be done with it ?” asked Mr. Worboise. 

Oh, you take care of it for me. You have more storage — 
for that kind of thing, I mean, than I have. I should never 
know where to find it.” 

If you want to make any alteration in it, there’s your box, 
you know.” 

^^Why, what alteration could I want to make in it ?” 

That’s not for me to suppose. You might quarrel with 
me though, and want to strike out my name.” 


Business, 


71 


True. I might quarrel with my wife too, mightn’t I, and 
strike her name out ? ” 

It might happen.” 

‘^Yes ; anything might happen. Meantime I am content 
with sufficient probabilities.” 

By the way, how is that son of mine getting on ?” 

Oh, pretty well. He’s regular enough, and I hear no 
complaints of him from Stopper ; and he's sharp enough, I 
assure you.” 

But you’re not over-satisfied with him yourself, eh ? ” 

‘^Well, to speak the truth, between you and me, I don’t 
think he’s cut out for our business.” 

That’s much the same as saying he’s of no use for busi- 
ness of any sort.” 

I don’t know. He does his work fairly well, as I say, but 
he don’t seem to have any heart in it.” 

Well, what do you think he is fit for now ? ” 

^^I’m sure I don’t know. You could easily make a fine 
gentleman of him.” 

Mr. Boxall spoke rather bitterly, for he had already had 
fiitting doubts in his mind whether Tom had been behaving 
well to Mary. It had become very evident since her illness 
that she was very much in love with Tom, and that he should 
be a hair’s-breadth less in love with her was offense enough to 
rouse the indignation of a man like Mr. Boxall, good-natured 
as he was ; and that he had never thought it worth while even 
to mention the fact of her illness to his father, was strange to 
a degree. 

‘‘ But I can’t afford to make a fine gentleman of him. I’ve 
got his sister to provide for as well as my fine gentleman. I 
don’t mean to say that I could not leave him as much, perhaps 
more than you can to each of your daughters ; but girls are so 
different from boys. Girls can live upon anything \ fine 
gentlemen can’t.” And here Mr. Worboise swore. 

“Well, it’s no business of mine,” said Mr. Boxall. “If 
there’s anything I can do for him, of course, for your sake, 
Worboise — ” 

“ The rascal has offended him somehow,” said Mr. Worboise 
to himself. “ It’s that Hampstead business. Have patience 
with the young dog,” he said, aloud. “ That’s all I ask you 
to do for him. Who knows what may come out of him 
yet ? ” 

“ That’s easy to do. As I tell you, there’s no fault to find 
with him,” answered Mr. Boxall, afraid that he had exposed 


72 Ouild Court 

some feeling that had better have been hidden. Only one 
must speak the truth.” 

With these words Mr. Boxall took his leave. 

Mr. Worboise sat and cogitated. 

‘‘There’s something in that rascal’s head, now,” he said to 
himself. “His mother and that Simon will make a spoon of 
him. I want to get some sense out of him before he’s trans- 
lated to kingdom-come. But how the deuce to get any sense 
out when there’s so precious little in I I found seventeen vol- 
umes of Byron on his book-shelves last night. I’ll have a talk 
to his mother about him. Not that that’s of much use ! ” 

To her husband Mrs. Worboise always wore a resigned air, 
believing herself unequally yoked to an unbeliever with a bond 
which she was not at liberty to break, because it was enjoined 
upon her to win her husband by her chaste conversation coup- 
led with fear. Therefore when ho went into her room that 
evening, she received him as usual with a look which might 
easily be mistaken, and not much mistaken either, as ex- 
pressive of a sense of injury. 

“Well, my dear,” her husband began, in a conciliatory, 
indeed jocose, while yet complaining tone, “do you know 
what this precious son of ours has been about ? Killing Mary 
Boxall in a snow-storm, and never telling me a word about it. 
I suppose you know the whole story, though ? You might 
have told me.” 

“Indeed, Mr. Worboise, I am sorry to say I know nothing 
about Thomas nowadays. I can’t understand him. He’s 
quite changed. But if I were not laid on a couch of suffering 
— not that I complain of that — I should not come to you to 
ask what he was about. I should find out for myself.” 

“I wish to goodness you were able.” 

“Do not set your wish against His will,” returned Mrs. 
Worboise, with a hopeless reproof in her tone, implying that it 
was of no use to say so, but she must bear her testimony not- 
withstanding. 

“Oh! no, no,” returned her husband; “nothing of the 
sort. Nothing further from my intention. But what is to 
be done about this affair ? You know it would please you as 
well as me to see him married to Mary Boxall. She’s a good 
girl, that you know.” 

“ If I were sure that she was a changed character, there is noth- 
ing I should like better, I confess — that is, of worldly interest.” 

“Come, come, Mrs. Worboise. I don’t think you’re quite 
fair to the girl.” 


Business, 


73 


^^What do you mean, Mr. Worboise 

I mean that just now you seemed in considerable doubt 
whether or not your son was a changed character, as 
you call it. And yet you say that if Mary Boxall were a 
changed character, you would not wish anything more — that 
is, of worldly interest — than to see him married to Mary 
Boxall. Is that fair to Mary Boxall ? I put the question 
merely.” 

There would be the more hope for him ; for the Scripture 
says that the believing wife may save her husband.” 

Mr. Worboise winked inwardly to himself. Because his 
wife’s religion was selfish, and therefore irreligious, therefore, 
religion was a humbug, and therefore his conduct might be as 
selfish as ever he chose to make it. 

^^But how about Mary ? Why should you wish her, if she 
was a changed character, to lose her advantage by marrying 
one who is not so ? ” 

‘^Sho might change him, Mr. Worboise, as I have said al- 
ready,” returned the lady, decisively ; for she might speak 
with authority to one wlio knew nothing about these things.” 

‘‘ Yes. But if Thomas were changed, and Mary not — what 
then ? ” 

Mrs. Worboise murmured something not quite audible about 

I and the children whom G-od hath given me.” 

At the expense of the children he hasn’t given you ! ” said 
Mr. Worboise, at a venture ; and chuckled now, for he saw his 
victory in her face. 

But Mr. Worboise’s chuckle always made Mrs. Worboise 
shut iipf and not another word could he get out of her that 
evening. She never took refuge in her illness, but in an ab- 
solute dogged silence, which she persuaded herself that she was 
suffering for the truth’s sake. ^ 

Pier husband’s communication made her still more anxious 
about Thomas, and certain suspicions she had begun to enter- 
tain about the German master became more decided. In her 
last interview with Mr. Simon, she had hinted to him that 
Thomas ought to be watched, that they might know whether 
he really went to his German lesson or went somewhere else. 
But Mr. Simon was too much of a gentleman not to recoil 
from the idea, and Mrs. Worboise did not venture to press it. 
When she saw him again, however, she suggested — I think I 
had better give the substance of the conversation, for it would 
not in itself be interesting to my readers— she suggested her 
fears that his German master had been mingling German 


74 


Guild Court 


theology with his lessons, and so corrupting the soundness ot 
his.faith. This seemed to Mr. Simon very possible indeed, 
for he knew how insidious the teachers of such doctrines are, 
and, glad to do something definite for his suffering friend, he 
offered to call upon the man and see what sort of person he 
was. This offer Mrs. Worboise gladly accepted, without think- 
ing that of all men to find out any insidious person, Mr. Simon, 
in his simplicity, was the least likely. 

But now the difficulty arose that they knew neither his name 
nor where he lived, and they could not ask Thomas about him. 
So Mr. Simon undertook the task of finding the man by in- 
quiry in the neighborhood of Bagot Street. 

‘‘My friend.’’ he said, stepping the next morning into Mr. 
Kitely’s shop, — he had a way of calling everybody his friend, 
thinking so to recommend the Gospel. 

“ At your service, sir,” returned Mr. Kitely, brusquely, as 
he stepped from behind one of the partitions in the shop, and 
saw the little clerical apparition which had not even waited to 
see the form of the human being to whom he applied the sacred 
epithet. 

“ I only wanted to ask you,” drawled Mr. Simon, in a drawl 
both of earnestness and unconscious affectation, “ whether you 
happen to know of a German master somewhere in this neigh- 
borhood.” 

“Well, I don’t know,” returned Mr. Kitely, in a tone that 
indicated a balancing rather than pondering operation of the 
mind. For although he was far enough from being a Scotch- 
man, he always liked to know why one asked a question, before 
he cared to answer it. “I don’t know as I could recommend 
one over another.” 

“ I am not in want of a master. I only wish to find out one 
that lives in this neighborhood.” 

“ I know at least six of them within a radius of one-half 
mile, taking my shop here for the center of the circle,” said 
Mr. Kitely, consequentially. “What’s the man’s name you 

“ That is what I cannot tell you.” 

“ Then how am I to tell you, sir ? ” 

“ If you will oblige me with the names and addresses of 
those six you mention, one of them will very likely be the man 
I want.” 

“ I dare say the clergyman wants Mr. Moloch, father,” said 
a voice from somewhere in the neighborhood of the floor, “ the 
foreign gentleman that Mr. Worboise goes to see, up the court.” 


Business, 75 

That’s the Tery man, my child,” responded Mr. Simon. 

Thank you very much. Where shall I find him ? ” 

^‘I’ll show you,” returned Mattie. 

‘^Why couldn’t he have said so before?” remarked Mr. 
Kitely to himself with indignation. ‘‘ But it’s just like them.” 

By thefn he meant clergymen in general. 

What a fearful name — Moloch ! ” reflected Mr. Simon, as 
he followed Mattie up the court. He would have judged it a 
name of bad omen, had he not thought omen rather a wicked 
word. The fact was, the German’s name was Molken, a very 
innocent one, far too innocent for its owner, for it means only 
whey. 

Herr Molken was a ne^ er-do-wcel student of Heidelberg, a 
clever fellow, if not a scholar, whose had habits came to be too 
well known at home for his being able to indulge them there 
any longer, and who had taken refuge in London from certain 
disagreeable consequences which not unfrequently follow aber- 
rant efforts to procure the means of gambling and general dis- 
sipation. Thomas had as yet spent so little time in his com- 
pany, never giving more than a quarter of an hour or so to his 
lesson, that Molken had had no opportunity of influencing 
him in any way. But he was one of those who, the moment 
they make a new acquaintance, begin examining him for the 
sake of discovering his weak points, that they may get some 
hold of him. He measured his own strength or weakness by 
the number of persons of whom at any given time he had a 
hold capable of being turned to advantage in some way or other 
in the course of events. Of all dupes, one with some intellect 
and no principle, weakened by the trammels of a religious sys- 
tem with which he is at strife, and which therefore hangs 
like a millstone about his neck, impedes his every motion, 
and gives him up to the mercy of his enemy, is the most 
thorough prey to the pigeon-plucker ; for such a one has 
no recuperative power, and the misery of his conscience makes 
him abject. Molken saw that Tom was clever, and beseemed 
to have some money — if he could get this hold of him in any 
way, it might be ‘‘to the welfare of his advantage'.” 

The next lesson fell on the evening after Mr. Simon’s visit 
in Guild Court, and Mr. Molken gave Thomas a full account 
of the “beseek” he had had from “one soft ghostly,” who 
wanted to find out something about Thomas, and how he had 
told him that Mr. Worboise was a most excellent and religious 
young man ; that he worked very hard at his German, and 
that he never spent less (here Mr. Molken winked at Thomas) 


76 


GtcUd Court 


than an hour and a half over Kmmmacher or some other re- 
ligious writer. All this Mr. Simon had faithfully reported to 
Mrs. Worboise, never questioning what Mr. Molken told him, 
though how any one could have looked at him without finding 
cause to doubt whatever he might say, I can hardly imagine. 
For Mr. Molken was a small, wiry man, about thirty, with 
brows overhanging his eyes like the eaves of a Swiss cottage, 
and rendering those black and wicked luminaries blacker and 
more wicked still. His hair was black, his beard was black, 
his skin was swarthy, his forehead was large ; his nose looked 
as if it had been made of putty and dabbed on after the rest 
of his face was finished ; his mouth was sensual ; and, in 
short, one was inclined to put the question in the gospel — ■ 
Whether hath sinned, this man or his parents ? He could, 
notwithstanding, make himself so agreeable, had such a win- 
ning carriage and dignified deference, that he soon disarmed 
the suspicion caused by his appearance. He had, besides, 
many accomplishments, and seemed to know everything — at 
least to a lad like Thomas, who could not detect the assump- 
tion which not unfrequently took the place of knowledge. He 
manifested, also, a genuine appreciation of his country’s poetry, 
and even the short lessons to which Thomas submitted had 
been enlivened by Herr Molken’s enthusiasm for Goethe. If 
those of his poems which he read and explained to Thomas 
were not of the best, they were none the worse for his pur- 
poses. 

Now he believed he had got, by Mr. Simon’s aid, the hold 
that he wanted. His one wink, parenthetically introduced 
above, revealed to Thomas that he was master of his secret, 
and Thomas felt that he was, to a considerable degree, in his 
hands. This, however, caused him no apprehension. 

His mother, although in a measure relieved, still cherished 
suspicions of German theology which the mention of Krum- 
macher had failed to remove. She would give her son a direct 
warning on the subject. So, when he came into her room that 
evening, she said : 

Mr. Simon has been making some friendly inquiries about 
you, Thomas. He was in the neighborhood, and thought he 
might call on Mr. Moloch— what a dreadful name ! Why have 
you nothing to say to me about your studies ? Mr. Simon 
says you are getting quite a scholar in German. But it is a 
dangerous language, Thomas, and full of errors. Beware of 
yielding too ready an ear to the seductions of human philos- 
ophy and the undermining attacks of will-worship.” 


77 


Mother ana Daughter, 

Mrs. Worboise went on in this strain, intelligible neither to 
herself nor her son, seeing she had not more than the vaguest 
notion of what she meant by German theology, for at least 
five minutes, during which Thomas did not interrupt her 
once. By allowing the lies of his German master to pass thus 
uncontradicted, he took another long stride down the inclined 
plane of deceit. 

After this he became naturally more familiar with Mr. 
Molken. The German abandoned books, and began to teach 
him fencing, in which he was an adept, talking to him in Ger- 
man all the while, and thus certainly increasing his knowledge 
of the language, though not in a direction that was likely 
within fifty years to lead him to the mastery of commercial 
correspondence in that tongue. 


CHAPTEK X. 

MOTHER AHD DAUGHTER. 

Mr. Boxall, with some difficulty, arising from reluctance, 
made his wife acquainted with the annoyance occasioned him 
by the discovery of the fact that Tom Worboise had not even 
told his father that Mary was ill. 

‘^I’m convinced,” he said, ‘^that the young rascal has only 
been amusing himself — flirting, I believe, you women call it.” 

‘^I’m none so sure of that, Eichard,” answered his wife. 

You leave him to me.” 

^^Xow, my dear, I won’t have you throwing our Mary in 
any fool’s face. It’s bad enough as it is. But I declare I 
would rather see her in her grave than scorned by any man.” 

‘‘You may see her there without before long,” answered his 
wife, with a sigh. 

“Eh ! What ! She’s not worse, is she ?” 

“ No ; but she hasn’t much life left in her. I’m afraid it’s 
settling on her lungs. Her cough is something dreadful to 
hear, and tears her to pieces.” 

“ It’s milder weather, though, now, and that will make a 
difference before long. Now, I know what you’re thinking 
of, my dear, and I won’t have it. I told the fellow she wasn’t 
fit to see anybody.” 


78 


Guild Court 


Were you always ready to talk about me to eyeryone that 
came in your way, Eichard ? ” asked his wife, with a good- 
humored smile. 

I don’t call a lad’s father and mother any one that comes 
in the way — though, I dare say, fathers and mothers are in 
the way sometimes,” he added, with a slight sigh. 

Would you have talked about me to your own father, 
Eichard ? ” 

^‘Well, you see, I wasn’t in his neighborhood. But my 
father was a — a — stiff kind of man to deal with.” 

^^Not worse than Mr. Worboise, depend upon it, my dear.” 

^^But Worboise would like well enough to have our Mary 
for a daughter-in-law.” 

I dare say. But that mightn’t make it easier to talk to 
him about her — for Tom, I mean. For my part, I never 
did see two such parents as poor Tom has got. I declare 
it’s quite a shame to sit upon that handsome young lad — and 
amiable — as they do. He can hardly call his nose his own. 
I wouldn’t trust that Mr. Worboise, for my part, no, not if 
I was drowning.” 

Why, wife ! ” exclaimed Mr. Boxall, both surprised and 
annoyed, this is something now. How long — ” 

But his wife went on, regardless. 

And that mother of his ! It’s a queer kind of religion that 
freezes the life out of you the moment you come near her. 
How ever a young fellow could talk about his sweetheart to 
either of them is more than I can understand — or you either, 
my dear. So don’t look so righteous over it.” 

Mrs. BoxaU’s good-natured audacity generally carried every- 
thing before it, even with more dangerous persons than her 
own husband. He could not help — I do not say smiling, but 
trying to smile ; and though the smile was rather a failure, 
Mrs. Boxall chose to take it for one. Indeed, she generally 
put her husband into good humor by treating him as if ho 
were in a far better humor than he really was in. It never 
does any good to tell a man that he is cross. If he is, it 
makes him no better, even though it should make him vexed 
with himself ; and if he isn’t cross, nothing is more certain to 
make him cross, without giving him a moment’s time to con- 
sult the better part of him. 

Within the next eight days, Mrs. Boxall wrote to Tom as 
follows : 

“My Deak Me. Thomas — Mary is much better, and you 


79 


Mother and Daughter, 

need not be at all uneasy about the consequences of your expe- 
dition to the North Pole on Christmas Day. I am very sorry 
I was so cross when you brought her home. Indeed, I believe 
I ought to beg your pardon. If you don’t come and see us 
soon, I shall fancy that I have seriously offended you. But I 
knew she never could stand exposure to the weather, and I 
suppose that was what upset my temper. Mary will be pleased 
to see you. — I am, ever yours sincerely, jAiq’E Boxall.” 

Tom received this letter before he left for town in the 
morning. What was he to do ? Of course he must go and 
call there, as he styled it, but he pronounced it a great bore. 
He was glad the poor girl was better ; but he couldn’t help it, 
and he had no fancy for being hunted up after that fashion. 
What made him yet more savage was, that Mr. Boxall was 
absolutely surly — he had never seen him so before — whon he 
went into his room upon some message from Mr. Stopper. He 
did not go that day nor the next. 

On the third evening he went ; — ^but the embarrassment of 
feeling that ho ought to have gone before was added to the dis- 
like of going at all, and he was in no enviable condition of 
mind when he got off the Clapton omnibus. Add to this that 
an unrelenting east wind was blowing, and my reader will 
believe that Tom Worboise was more like a man going to the 
scaffold than one going to visit a convalescent girl. 

There was something soothing, however, in the glow of 
warmth and comfort which the opening door revealed. The 
large hall, carpeted throughout, the stove burning in it most 
benevolently, the brightness of the thick stair-rods, like veins 
of gold in the broad crimson carpeting of the generously wide 
stair-case — all was consoling to Thomas, whose home was one 
of the new straight-up-and-down, stucco-faced abominations 
which can never be home-like except to those who have been 
bom in them — and no thanks to them, for in that case a 
rabbit-hutch will be home-like. Mrs. Boxall was one of those 
nice, stout, kindly, middle-aged women who have a positive 
genius for comfort. Now there is no genius in liking to be 
comfortable ; but there is some genius in making yourself com- 
fortable, and a great deal more in making other people comfort- 
able. This Mrs. Boxall possessed in perfection ; and you felt 
it the moment you entered her house, which, like her person, 
summer and winter, was full of a certain autumnal richness — 
the bloom of peaches and winter apples. And what was 
remarkable was, that all this was gained without a breath of 


80 


Guild Court 


scolding to the maids. She would ring the bell ten times an 
hour for the same maid, if necessary. She would ring at 
once, no matter how slight the fault — a scrap of paper, 
a cornerful of dust, a roll of flue upon that same stair-carpet — 
hut not even what might make an indulgent mistress savage — 
a used lucifer match — ^would upset the temper of Mrs. Box- 
all. Why do I linger on these trifles, do you ask, reader ? 
Because I shall have to part with Mrs. Boxall soon ; and — 
shall I confess it ? — because it gives me a chance of reading a 
sly lecture to certain ladies whom I know, but who cannot 
complain when I weave it into a history. My only trouble 
about Mrs. Boxall is, to think in what condition she musr 
have found herself when she was no longer in the midst of 
any of the circumstances of life — had neither house nor clothes, 
nor even the body she had been used to dress with such ma- 
tronly taste, to look after. 

It was with a certain tremor that Tom approached the door 
of Mary BoxalFs room. But he had not time to indulge it, as 
I fear he might have done if he had had time, for, as I have 
said, he prized feelings, and had not begun even to think 
about actions. 

What a change from the Mary of the snow-storm ! She lay 
on a couch near the fire, pale and delicate, with thin white 
hands, and altogether an altered expression of being. But 
her appearance of health had always been somewhat boastful. 
Thomas felt that she was far lovelier than before, and ap- 
proached her with some emotion. But Mary’s illness had 
sharpened her perceptions. There was no light in the room 
but that of the fire, and it lightened and gloomed over her still 
face, as the clouds and the sun do over a landscape. As the 
waters shine out and darken again in the hollows, so her eyes 
gleamed and vanished, and in the shadow Thomas could not 
tell whether she was looking at him or not. But then Mary 
was reading his face like a book in a hard language, which yet 
she understood enough to read it. Very little was said between 
them, for Mary was sad and weak, and Thomas was sorrowful 
and perplexed. She had been reckoning on tliis first visit 
from Thomas ever since she had recovered enough to choose 
what she would think about ; and now it was turning out all 
so different from what she had pictured to herself. Her poor 
heart sank away somewhere, and left a hollow place where it 
had used to be. Thomas sat there, but there was a chasm 
between them, not such as she any longer sought to cross, but 
which she would have wider still. She wished he would go. 


81 


Mother and Daughter, 

A few more commonplaces across the glimmering fire, and it 
sank, as if sympathetic, into a sullen gloom, and the face of 
neither was visible to the other. Then Thomas rose with the 
effort of one in a nightmare dream. Mary held out her hand 
to him. He took it in his, cold to the heart. The fire gave 
out one flame which flickered and died. In that light she 
looked at him — was it reproachfully ? He thought so, and felt 
that her eyes were like those of one trying to see something at 
a great distance. One pressure of her hand, and he left her. 
He would gladly have shrunk into a nutshell. ‘‘Good-by, 
Thomas,” “ Good-by, Mary,” were the last words that passed 
between them. 

Outside the room he found Mrs. Boxall. 

“ .^e you going already, Mr. Thomas ? ” she said, in an un- 
certain kind of tone. 

“Yes, Mrs. Boxall,” was all Tom had to reply with. 

Mrs. Boxall went into her daughter’s room, and shut the 
door. Thomas let himself out, and walked away. 

She found Mary lying staring at the fire, with great dry eyes, 
lips pressed close together, and face even whiter than before. 

“ My darling child ! ” said the mother. 

“It’s no matter, mother. It’s all my own foolish fault. 
Only bed again will be so dreary now.” 

The mother made some gesture, which the daughter under- 
stood. 

“ Ho, mother ; don’t say a word. I won’t hear a word of 
that kind. I’m a good deal wiser already than I used to be. 
If I get better, I sMl live for you and papa.” 

A dreadful fit of coughing interrupted her.‘ 

“ Don’t fancy I’m going to die for love,” she said, with a 
faint attempt at a smile. “ I’m not one of that sort. If I 
die, it’ll be of a good honest cough, that’s all. Dear mother, 
it’s nothing, I declare.” 

Thomas never more crossed that threshold. And ever after, 
Mr. Boxall spoke to him as a paid clerk, and nothing more. 
So he had to carry some humiliation about with him. Mr. 
Stopper either knew something of the matter, or followed the 
tone of his principal. Even Charles Wither was short with 
him after awhile. I suppose Jane told him that he had be- 
haved very badly to Mary. So Tom had no friend left but Lucy, 
and was driven nearer to Mr. Molken. He still contrived to 
keep his visits at Guild Court, except those to Mr. Molken, a 
secret at home. But I think Mr. Stopper had begun to sus- 
pect, if not to find him out. 

6 


82 


Guild Court, 


I liaye not done with the Boxalls yet, though there is hence- 
forth an impassable gulf between Tom and them. 

As the spring drew on, Mary grew a little better. With the 
first roses, Uncle John Boxall came home from the Chinese 
Sea, and took up his residence for six weeks or so with his 
brother. Mary was fond of Uncle John, and his appearance 
at this time was very opportune. A more rapid improvement 
was visible within a few days of his arrival. He gave himself 
up almost to the invalid ; and as she was already getting over 
her fancy for Tom, her love for her uncle came in to aid her 
recovery. 

It’s the smell of the salt water,” said he, when they re- 
marked how much good he had done her; ^^and more of it 
would do her more good yet.” 

They thought it better not to tell him anything about Tom. 
But one day after dinner, in a gush of old feelings, brought on 
by a succession of reminiscences of their childhood, Kichard 
told John all about it, which was not much. John swore, and 
kept pondering the matter over. 


CHAPTER XL 

MATTIE FOR POPPIE. 

One bright morning, when the flags in the passage were 
hot to her feet, and the shoes she had lost in the snow-storm 
had not the smallest chance of recurring to the memory of 
Poppie, in this life at least, Mattie was seated with Mr. Spelt 
in his workshop, which seemed to the passer-by to be sup- 
ported, like the roof of a chapter-house, upon the single pillar 
of Mr. Dolman, with his head for a capital — which did not, 
however, branch out in a great many directions. She was not 
dressing a doll now, for Lucy had set her to work upon some 
garments for the poor, Lucy’s relation with whom I will ex- 
plain by and by. 

^^I’ve been thinking, mother,” she said — to Mr. Spelt, of 
course — that I wonder how ever God made me. Did he cut 
me out of something else, and join me up, do you think ? If 
he did, where did he get the stuff ? And if he didn’t, how 
did he do it?” 


83 


Mattie for P(yppie, 

^^Well, my dear, it would puzzle a wiser head than mine to 
answer that question,” said Mr. Spelt, who plainly judged 
ignorance a safer refuge from Mattie than any knowledge he 
possessed upon the subject. Her question, however, occa- 
sioned the return, somehow or other, of an old suspicion which 
he had not by any means cherished, but which would force 
itself upon him now and then, that the splendid woman, Mrs. 
Spelt, ‘^had once ought” to have had a baby, and, somehow, 
he never knew what had come of it. She got all right again, 
and the baly was nowhere. 

I wish I had thought to watch while God was a-making of 
me, and then I should have remembered how he did it,” Mat- 
tie resumed. ^^Ah ! but I couldn’t,” she added, checking 
herself, ‘^for I wasn’t made till I was finished, and so I 
couldn’t remember.” 

This was rather too profound for Mr. Spelt to respond to in 
any way. Not that he had not a g:limmering of Mattie’s 
meaning, but that is a very different thing from knowing what 
to answer. So he said nothing, except what something might 
be comprised in a bare assent. Mattie, however, seemed bent 
on forcing conversation, and, finding him silent, presently 
tried another vein. 

^^Do you remember a conversation we had, in this very 
place” — that was not wonderful, anyhow — some time ago— 
before my last birthday — about God being kinder to some peo- 
ple than to other people ? ” she asked. 

Yes, I do,” answered Mr. Spelt, who had been thinking 
about the matter a good deal since. Are you of the same mind 
still, Mattie ? ” 

Well, yes, and no,” answered Mattie. I think now there 
may be something in it I can’t quite get at the bottom of. Do 
you know, mother, I remembered all at once, the other day, 
that when I was a little girl, I used to envy Poppie. Now, 
where ever was there a child that had more of the blessings of 
childhood than me ? ” 

What made you envy Poppie, then, Mattie ? ” 

Well, you see, my father’s shop was rather an awful place, 
sometimes. I never told you, mother, what gained me the 
pleasure of your acquaintance. Ever since I can remember — 
and that is a very long time ago now — I used now and then to 
grow frightened at father’s books. Sometimes, you know, 
they were all quiet enough. You would generally expect 
books to be quiet, now wouldn’t you ? But other times — well, 
they wouldn’t be quiet. At least, they kept thinking all about 


84 


Guild Court 


me, till my poor head couldn’t bear it any longer. That al- 
ways was my weak point, you know.” 

Mr. Spelt looked with some anxiety at the pale face and 
great forehead of the old little woman, and said : 

Yes, yes, Mattie. But we’ye got over all that, I think, 
pretty well by now.” 

Well, do you know, Mr. Spelt, I have not even yet got 
over my fancies about the books. Very often, as I am falling 
asleep, I hear them all thinking ; — they can hardly help it, 
you know, with so much to think about inside them. I don’t 
near them exactly, you know, for the one thinks into the 
other’s thinks — somehow, I can’t tell — and they blot each 
other out like, and there is nothing but a confused kind of a 
jumble in my head till I fall asleep. Well, it was one day, 
very like this day — it was a hot summer forenoon, wasn’t it, 
mother ? — I was standing at that window over there. And 
Poppie was playing down in the court. And I thought what 
a happy little girl she was, to go where she pleased in the sun- 
shine, and not need to put on any shoes. Father wouldn’t let 
me go where I liked. And there was nothing but books every- 
where. That was my nursery then. It was all round with 
books. And some of them had dreadful pictures in them. 
•All at once the books began talking so loud as I had never 
hoard them talk before. And I thought with myself — 
won’t stand this any longer. I will go away with Poppie.’ 

So I ran down stairs, but because I couldn’t open the door 
into the court, I had to watch and dodge father among the 
book-shelves. And when I got out, Poppie was gone — and 
then, what next, mother ?” 

Then my thread knotted, and that always puts me out of 
temper, because it stops my work. And I always look down 
into the court when I stop. Somehow that’s the way my eyes 
do of themselves. And there I saw a tiny little maiden star- 
ing all about lier as if she had lost somebody, and her face 
looked as if she was just going to cry. And 1 knew who she 
was, for I had seen her in the shop before. And so I called 
to her and she came. And I asked her what was the matter.” 

‘^Well, and I said, ‘It’s the books that will keep talking :’ 
didn’t I?” 

“Yes. And I took you up beside me. But you was very 
ill after that, and it was long before you came back again after 
that first time.” 

This story had been gone over and over again between the 
pair ; but every time that Mattie wanted to rehearse the one 


85 


Mattie for Pojppie, 

adventure of her life, she treated it as a memory that had just 
returned upon her. How much of it was an original impres- 
sion and how much a rewriting by the tailor upon the blotted 
tablets of her memory, I cannot tell. 

‘‘Well, where was I?” said Mattie, after a pause, laying 
her hands on her lap and looking up at the tailor with eyes of 
inquiry. 

“I’m sure I don’t know, Mattie,” answered Mr. Spelt. 

“ I was thinking, you know, that perhaps Poppie has her 
share of what’s going on, after all.” 

“And don’t you think,” suggested her friend, “that per- 
haps God doesn’t want to keep all the good-doing to himself, 
but leaves room for us to have a share in it ? It’s very nice 
work that you’re at now — isn’t it Mattie ? ” 

“Well, It is.” 

“As good as dressing dolls ?” 

“Well, it’s no end of better.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because the dolls don’t feel a bit better for it, you know.” 

“ And them that’ll wear that flannel petticoat will feel bet- 
ter for it, won’t they ? ” 

“ That they will, /know.” 

“ But suppose everybody in the world was as well off as you 
and me, Mattie — you with your good father, and — ” 

“Well, my father ain’t none so good, just. He swears 
sometimes.” 

“ He’s good to you, though, ain’t he ?” 

“ I don’t know that either, mother : he spoils me,” answered 
Mattie, who seemed to be in a more than usually contradictory 
humor this morning. 

“ Supposing, though, that everybody had a father that 
spoiled them, you wouldn’t have any such clothes to make, you 
know.” 

“ But they wouldn’t want them.” 

“ And you would be forced to go back to your dolls as have 
no father or mother and come across the sea in boxes.” 

“ I see, I see, mother. Well, I suppose I must allow that it 
is good of God to give us a share in making people comfort- 
able. You see he could do it himself, only he likes to give us 
a share. That’s it, ain’t, it mother ? ” 

“ That’s what I mean, Mattie.” 

“Well, but you’ll allow it does seem rather hard that I 
should have this to do now, and there’s Poppie hasn’t either 
the clothes to wear or to make.” 


86 


Guild Court 


Can’t you do sometliing for Poppie, then ? ” 

Well, I’ll think about it, and see what I can do.” 

Here Mattie laid aside her work, crept on all fours to the 
door, and peeped over into the passage below. 

‘‘ Well, Poppie,” she began, in the intellectually condescend- 
ing tone which most grown people use to children, irritating 
some of them by it considerably, — Well, Poppie, and how do 
you do ? ” • 

Poppie heard the voice, and looked all round, but not seeing 
where it came from, turned and scudded away under the arch. 
Though Mattie knew Poppie, Poppie did not know Mattie, did 
not know her voice at least. It was not that Poppie was 
frightened exactly — she hardly ever was frightened at any- 
thing, not even at a policeman, but she was given to scudding ; 
and when anything happened she did not precisely know what 
to do with, she scudded ; at least if there was no open drain 
or damaged hoarding at hand. But she did not run far this 
time. As soon as she got under the shelter of the arch, she 
turned behind a sort of buttress that leaned against the book- 
seller’s house, and peeped back toward the court. 

At that moment Lucy came out of the house. She came 
down the passage, and as Mattie was still leaning over the 
door, or the threshold, rather, of the workshop, she saw her, 
and stopped. Thereupon Poppie came out of her coign of 
vantage,” and slowly approached, just like a bird or a tame 
rabbit — only she was not by any means so tame as the latter. 

Are you getting on with that petticoat, Mattie ? ” said Lucy. 

Yes, miss, I am. Only not being used to anything but 
boys’ clothes, I am afraid you won’t like the tailor’s stitch, miss.” 

Never mind that. It will be a curiosity, that’s all. But 
what do you think, Mattie ? The kind lady who gives us this 
work to do for the poor people, has invited all of us to go and 
spend a day with her.” 

Mattie did not answer. Lucy thought she did not care to 
go. But she was such an oddity that she wanted very much to 
take her. 

She has such a beautiful garden, Mattie! And she’s so 
kind.” 

Still Mattie made no reply. Lucy would try again. 

“ And it’s such a beautiful house, too, Mattie ! I’m sure 
you would like to see it. And,” she added, almost reduced to 
her last resource, she would give us such a nice dinner, I 
know I ” 

This at length burst the silence, but not as Lucy had expected. 


Mattie for Poppie. 87 

Now that’s just what I’m determined I will not stand,” 
said the little maid. 

What do you mean, Mattie ? ” exclaimed Lucy, surprised 
and bewildered. 

I’ll tell you what I mean, and that soon enough,” said 
Mattie. It’s all yery kind of Mrs. Morgingturn to ask you 
and me, what are well-to-do people, and in comfortable cir- 
cumstances, as people say, to go and spend this day or that 
with her. And do you know, Mr. Spelt” — here Mattie drew 
herself in and turned her face right round from Lucy to the 
tailor, for the side of her mouth which she used for speech was 
the left, and the furthest from Spelt — it just comes into my 
head that this kind lady who gives me petticoats to make in- 
stead of doll’s trousers, is doing the very thing you read about 
last night out of the New Testament before I went into bed. 
It’s so nice now there’s light enough to read a little before we 
part for the night ! ain’t it, mother ?” 

I know, I know,” said the tailor in a low voice, not wish- 
ing to intrude himself into the conversation. 

‘^What did Mr. Spelt read to you, Mattie ?” asked Lucy. 

He read about somebody — ” 

It was very remarkable how Mattie would use the name of 
God, never certainly with irreverence, but with a freedom that 
seemed to indicate that to her he was chiefly if not solely an 
object of metajihysical speculation or, possibly, of investiga- 
tion ; while she hardly ever uttered the name of the Saviour, 
but spoke of him as Somebody, And I find that I must yet 
further interrupt the child herself to tell an anecdote about 
her which will perhaps help my reader to account for the fact 
I am about to finish telling. She was not three years old 
when she asked her mother, a sweet, thoughtful woman, in 
many ways superior to her husband , though not intellectually 
his equal — who made the tree in Wood Street ? Her mother 
answered, of course, God made it, my pet ; ” for by instinct, 
she never spoke of her God without using some term of en- 
dearment to her child. Mattie answered — I would like it 
better if a man made it ” — a cry after the humanity of God — 
a longing in tlie heart of the three years’ child for the Messiah 
of God. Her mother did not know well enough to tell her 
that a man, yes, the man did make them — ‘^for by Him all 
things were made ; ” — but Mattie may have had some unde- 
fined glimmering of the fact, for, as I have said, she always 
substituted Somebody for any name of the Lord. I cannot 
help wishing that certain religious people of my acquaintance 


88 


Guild Court 


would, I do not say follow queer little Mattie’s example, but 
take a lesson from queer little Mattie. 

He read about somebody saying you shouldn’t ask your 
friends and neighbors who could do the same for you again, 
but you should ask them that couldn’t, because they hadn’t a 
house to ask you to, like Poppie there.” 

Lucy looked round and saw the most tattered little scare- 
crow — useless eyen as such in the streets of London, where 
there are only dusty little sparrows and an occasional raven — 
staring at — I cannot call it a group — well, it was a group ver- 
tically, if not laterally — and not knowing or caring what to 
make of it, only to look at Lucy, and satisfy her undefined and 
undefinable love by the beholding of its object. She loved 
what was lovely without in the least knowing that it was lovely, 
or what lovely meant. And while Lucy gazed at Poppie, with 
a vague impression that she had seen the child before, she 
could not help thinking of the contrast between the magnifi- 
cent abode of the Morgensterns — for magnificent it was, even 
in London — and the lip of the nest from which the strange 
child preached down into the world the words friends and 
neighbors.” 

But she could say nothing more to Mattie till she had told, 
word for word, the whole story to Mrs. Morgenstern, who, 
she knew, would heartily enjoy the humor of it. Nor was 
Lucy, who loved her Lord very truly, even more than she 
knew, though she was no theologian like Thomas, in the least 
deterred from speaking of Somebody, by the fact that Mrs. 
Morgenstern did not receive him as the Messiah of her nation. 
If he did not hesitate to show himself where he knew he would 
not be accepted, why should she hesitate to speak his name? 
And why should his name not be mentioned to those who, al- 
though they had often been persecuted in his name by those 
who did not understand his mind, might well be proud that 
the man who was conquering the world by his strong, beauti- 
ful will, was a Jew. 

But from the rather severe indisposition of her grandmother, 
she was unable to tell the story to Mrs. Morgenstern till the 
very morning of the gathering. 


A Comparison. 


89 


CHAPTER XII. 

A COMPAKISOlf. 

Can I hope to move my readers to any pitiful sympathy 
with Mrs. Worboise, the whole fabric of whose desires was thus 
gliding into an abyss ? That she is not an interesting woman, 
I admit ; but, afc the same time, I venture to express a doubt 
whether our use of the word uninteresting really expresses 
anything more than our own ignorance. If we could look into 
the movements of any heart, I doubt very much whether that 
heart would be any longer uninteresting to us. Come with 
me, reader, while I endeavor, with some misgiving, I confess, 
to open a peep into the heart of this mother, which I have 
tried hard, though with scarcely satisfactory success, to under- 
stand. 

Her chief faculty lay in negations. Her whole life was a 
kind of negation — a negation of warmth, a negation of impulse, 
a negation of beauty, a negation of health. When Thomas 
was a child, her chief communication with him was in nega- 
tives. ^^You must not; you are not ; do not and so on. 
Her theory of the world was humanity deprived of God. 
Because of something awful in the past, something awful lay 
in the future. To escape from the consequences of a condition 
which you could not help, you must believe certain things after 
a certain fashion — hold, in fact, certain theories with regard 
to the most difficult questions, on which, too, you were incapa- 
ble of thinking correctly. Him who held these theories you 
must regard as a fellow-favorite of heaven ; who held them not 
you would do well to regard as a publican and a sinner, even if 
he should be the husband in your bosom. All the present had 
value only of reference to the future. All your strife must be 
to become something you are not at all now, to feel what you 
do not feel, to judge against your nature, to regard everything 
in you as opposed to your salvation, and God, who is far away 
from you, and whose ear is not always ready to hear, as your 
only deliverer from the consequences he has decreed ; and this 
in virtue of no immediate relation to you, but from regard to 
another whose innocent suffering is to our guilt the only 
counterpoise weighty enough to satisfy his justice. All her 
anxiety for her son turned upon his final escape from punish- 
ment." She did not torment her soul, her nights were not 
sleepless with the fear that her boy should be unlike Christ, 


90 


Guild Court, 


that he might do that which was mean, selfish, dishonest, 
cowardly, vile, but with the fear that he was or might be 
doomed to an eternal suffering. 

Now, in so far as this idea had laid hold of the boy, it had 
aroused the instinct of self-preservation mingled with a repel- 
lent feeling in regard to God. All that was poor and common 
and selfish in him was stirred up on the side of religion ; all 
that was noble (and of that there was far more than my reader 
will yet fancy) was stirred up against it. The latter, however, 
was put down by degrees, leaving the whole region, when the 
far outlook of selfishness should be dimmed by the near urgings 
of impulse, open to the inroads of the enemy, enfeebled and 
ungarrisoned. Ah ! if she could have told the boy, every time 
his soul was lifted up within him by anything beautiful, or 
great, or true, That, my boy, is God — God telling you that 
you must be beautiful, and great, and true, else you cannot be 
His child ! ” If, every time he uttered his delight in fiower or 
bird, she had, instead of speaking of sin and shortcoming, 
spoken of love and aspiration toward the Father of Light, the 
God of Beauty ! If she had been able to show him that what 
he admired in Byron’s heroes, even, was the truth, courage, 
and honesty, hideously mingled, as it might be, with cruelty 
and conceit and lies ! But almost everything except the Epis- 
tles seemed to her of the devil and not of God. She was even 
jealous of the Gospel of God, lest it should lead him astray 
from the interpretation she put upon it. She did not under- 
stand that nothing can convince of sin but the vision of holi- 
ness ; that to draw near to the Father is to leave self behind ; 
that the Son of God appeared that by the sight of himself he 
might convince the world of sin. But then hers was a life 
that had never broken the shell, while through the shell the 
worm of suffering had eaten, and was boring into her soul. 
Have pity and not contempt, reader, who would not be like her. 
She did not believe in her own love, even, as from God, and 
therefore she restrained it before the lad. So he had no idea 
of how she loved him. If she had only thrown her arms about 
him, and let her heart out toward him, which surely it is right 
to do sometimes at least, how differently would he have list- 
ened to what she had to say ! His heart was being withered 
on the side next his mother for lack of nourishment : there 
are many lives ruined because they have not had tenderness 
enough. Kindness is not tenderness. She could not repre- 
sent God to the lad. If, instead of constantly referring to the 
hell that lies in the future, she had reminded him of the begin- 


91 


A Comparison, 

nings of that hell in his own bosom, appealing to himself 
whether there was not a faintness there that indicated some- 
thing wrong, a dull pain that might grow to a burning agony, 
a consciousness of wrong-doing, thinking, and feeling, a sense 
of a fearful pit and a miry clay within his own being from 
which he would gladly escape, a failing even from the great- 
ness of such grotesque ideals as he loved in poetry, a meanness, 
paltriness, and at best insignificance of motive and action, — 
and then told him that out of this was God stretching forth 
the hand to take and lift him, that he was waiting to exalt him 
to a higher ideal of manhood than anything which it had 
entered into his heart to conceive, that he would make him 
clean from the defilement which he was afraid to confess to 
himself because it lowered him in his own esteem, — ^then per- 
haps the words of his mother, convincing him that God was 
not against him but for him, on the side of his best feelings 
and against his worst, might have sunk into the heart of the 
weak youth, and he would straightway have put forth what 
strength he had, and so begun to be strong. For he who acts 
has stren^h, is strong, and will be stronger. But she could 
not tell him this : she did not know it herself. Her religion 
was something there, then ; not here, now. She would give 
Mr. Simon a five-pound note for his Scripture-reading among 
the poor, and the moment after refuse the request of her 
needle-woman from the same district who begged her to raise 
her wages from eighteen pence to two shillings a day. Eelig- 
ion — the bond between man and God — had nothing to do with 
the earnings of a sister, whose pale face told of penury and 
pine ” a sadder story even than that written upon the counte- 
nance of the invalid, for to labor in weakness, longing for rest, 
is harder than to endure a good deal of pain upon a sofa. 
Until we begin to learn that the only way to serve God in any 
real sense of the word is to serve our neighbor, we may have 
knocked at the wicket-gate, but I doubt if we have got one 
foot across the threshold of the kingdom. 

Add to this condition of mind a certain uncomfortable effect 
produced upon the mother by the son’s constantly reminding 
her of the father whom she had quite given up trying to love, 
and I think my reader will be a little nearer to the understand- 
ing of the relation, if such it could well be called, between the 
two. The eyes of both were yet unopened to the poverty of 
their own condition. The mother especially said that she was 
^^rich, and had need of nothing,” when she was ‘‘wretched, 
and miserable, and poor, and blind, and naked.” But she 
7 


92 


Guild Court, 


had a hard nature to begin with, and her pain occupied her all 
the more that she neither sought nor accepted sympathy. And 
although she was none the less a time-server and a worldly- 
minded woman that she decried worldliness and popery, and 
gave herself to the saving of her soul, yet the God who makes 
them loves even such people and knows all about them ; and it 
is well for them that he is their judge and not we. 

Let us now turn to another woman — Mrs. Morgenstern. I 
will tell you what she was like. She was a Jewess and like a 
Jewess. But there is as much difference between Jewesses as 
there is between Englishwomen. Is there any justice in fix- 
ing upon the lowest as the type 9 How does the Scotchman like 
to have his nation represented : by the man outside the 
tobacco-shop, or by the cantankerous logician and theologian 
so well known to some of us ? There is a Jewess that flaunts 
in gorgeous raiment and unclean linen ; and there is a Jewess 
noble as a queen, and pure as a daisy — fit to belong to that 
nation of which Mary the mother was born. Mrs. Morgenstern 
was of the latter class — tall, gTaceful, even majestic in the 
fashion of her form and carriage. Every feature was Jewish, 
and yet she might have been English, or Spanish, or German, 

i 'ust as well. Her eyes were dark — black, I would say, if I 
lad ever seen black eyes — and proud, yet with a dove-like veil 
over their fire. Sometimes there was even a trouble to be seen 
in them, as of a rainy mist amid the glow of a southern sky. 
I never could be quite sure what this trouble meant. She was 
rich, therefore she had no necessity ; she was not avaricious, 
and therefore she had no fear of dying in the work- 
house. She had but one child, therefore she was neither 
wearied with motherhood, nor a sufferer from suppressed ma- 
ternity, moved by which divine impulse so many women take 
to poodles instead of orphans. Her child was healthy and act- 
ive, and gave her no anxiety. That she loved her husband, 
no one who saw those eastern eyes rest upon him for a mo- 
ment could doubt. What, then, could be the cause of that 
slight restlessness, that gauzy change, that pensive shadow ? 
I think that there was more love in her yet than knew how 
to get out of her. She would look round sometimes — it was a 
peculiar movement — just as if some child had been pulling at 
her skirts. She had lost a child, but I do not think that was 
the cause. And however this may be, I do believe that noth- 
ing but the love of God will satisfy the power of love in any 
woman’s bosom. But did not Rebecca — they loved their old 
Jewish names, that family — did not Rebecca Morgenstern 


Mattie's Microcosm. 


93 


love God ? Truly I think she did — hut not enough to satisfy 
herself. And I venture to say more : I do not believe she 
could love him to the degree necessary for her own peace till 
she recognized the humanity in him. But she was more under 
the influences emanating from that story of the humanity of 
God than she knew herself. At all events she was a most hu- 
man and lovely lady, full of grace and truth, like Mary before 
she was a Christian ; and it took a good while, namely all her 
son’s life and longer, to make her one. Eebecca Morgenstern 
never became a Christian. But she loved children, whether 
they were Christians or not. And she loved the poor, whether 
they were Christians or not ; and, like Dorcas, made and 
caused to be made, coats and garments for them. And, for my 
part, I know, if I had the choice, whether I would appear be- 
fore the Master in the train of the unbelieving Mrs. Morgen- 
stern or that of i\\Q believing Mrs. Worboise. And as to self- 
righteousness, I think there is far less of that among those 
who regard the works of righteousness as the means of 
salvation, than among those by whom faith itself is degraded 
into a work of merit — a condition by fulfilling which they be- 
come fit for God’s mercy ; for such is the trick which the old 
Adam and the Enemy together are ready enough to play the 
most orthodox, in despite of the purity of their creed. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Mattie’s miceocosm. 

Although Mrs. Boxall, senior, was still far from well, yet 
when the morning of Mrs. Morgcnstern’s gathering dawned, 
lovely even in the midst of London, and the first sun-rays, 
with green tinges and rosy odors hanging about their golden 
edges, stole into her room, reminding her of the old paddock 
and the feeding cov,^s at Bucks Horton, in Buckingham, she 
resolved that Lucy should goto Mrs. Morgenstem’s. So the 
good old lady set herself to feel better, in order that she might 
be better, and by the time Lucy, who had slept in the same 
room with her grandmother since her illness, awoke, she was 
prepared to persuade her that she was quite well enough to 
let her have a holiday. 


94 


Guild Court 


how am I to leave you, grannie, all alone ?” objected 

Lucy. 

‘‘ Oh ! I dare say that queer little Mattie of yours will come 
in and keep me company. Make haste and get your clothes 
on, and go and see.’^ 

Now Lucy had had hopes of inducing Mattie to go with her, 
as I indicated in a previous chapter ; but she could not press 
the child after the reason she gave for not going. And now 
she might as well ask her to stay with her grandmother. So 
she went round the comer to Mr. Kitely’s shop, glancing up 
at Mr. Spelt’s nest in the wall as she passed, to see whether 
she was not there. 

When slie entered the wilderness of books she saw no one ; 
but peeping round one of the many screens, she spied Mattie 
sitting with her back toward her and her head bent downward. 
Looking over her shoulder, she saw that she had a large fold- 
ing plate of the funeral of Lord Nelson open before her, the 
black shapes of which, with their infernal horror of plumes — 
the hateful flowers that the buried seeds of ancient paganism 
still shoot up into the pleasant Christian fields — she was study- 
ing with an unaccountable absorption of interest. 

, What have you got there Mattie ? ” asked Lucy. 

^^Well, I don’t ezackly know, miss,” answered the child, 
looking up, very white-faced and serious. 

Put the book away and come and see grannie. She wants 
you to take care of her to-day, while I go out.” 

‘^Well, miss, I would with pleasure; but you see father is 
gone out, and has left mo to take care of the shop till he comes 
back.” 

But he won’t be gone a great while, will he ? ” 

^^No, miss. He knows I don’t like to be left too long with 
the books. He’ll be back before St. Jacob’s strikes nine — that 
I know.” 

Well, then. I’ll go and get grannie made comfortable ; and 
if you don’t come to me by half -past nine. I’ll come after you 
again.” 

^^Do, miss, if you please ; for if father ain’t come by that 
time — my poor head — ” 

^^You must put that ugly book away,” said Lucy, ^^and 
take a better one.” 

^^Well, miss, I know I oughtn’t to have taken this book, 
for there’s no summer in it ; and it talks like the wind at 
night.” 

if Why did you take it, then ?” 


3Iattie's Microcosm, 


95 


Because Syne told me to take it. But that’s just why I 
oughtn’t to ha’ taken it.” 

And she rose and put the book in one of the shelyes over 
her head, moving her stool when she had done so, and turning 
her face toward the spot where the book now stood. Lucy 
watched her uneasily. 

What do you mean by saying that Syne told you ? ” she 
asked. Who is 85010 ? ” 

Don’t you know Syne, miss ? Syne is — you know ^Lord 
Syne was a miserly churl ’ — don’t you ? ” 

Then, before Lucy could reply, she looked up in her face, 
with a smile hovering about the one side of her mouth, and 
said : 

But it’s all nonsense, miss, when you’re standing there. 
There isn’t no such person as Syne, when you’re there. I 
don’t believe there is any such person. But,” she added with 
a sigh, ^^when you’re gone away — I don’t know. But I think 
he’s up stairs in the nursery now,” she said, putting her hand 
toiler big forehead. No, no ; there’s no such person.” 

And Mattie tried to laugh outright, but failed in the at- 
tempt, and the tears rose in her eyes. 

You’ve got a headache, dear,” said Lucy. 

Well, no,” answered Mattie. ‘‘I cannot say that 1 have 
just a headache, you know. But it does buzz a little. I hope 
Mr. Kitely won’t be long now.” 

I don’t like leaving you, Mattie ; but I must go to my 
grandmother,” said Lucy, with reluctance. 

Never mind me, miss. I’m used to it. I used to be afraid 
of Lord Syne, for he watched me, ready to pounce out upon 
me with all his men at his back, and he laughed so loud to see 
me run. But I know better now. I never mn from him now. 
I always frown at him, and take my own time and do as I like. 
I don’t want him to see that I’m afraid, you know. And I do 
think I have taught him a lesson. Besides, if he’s very 
troublesome, 5^ou know, miss, I can run to Mr. Spelt. But I 
never talk to him about Syne, because when I do he always 
looks so mournful. Perhaps he thinks it is wicked. He is so 
good himself, ho has no idea how wicked a body can be.” 

Lucy thought it best to hurry away, that she might return 
the sooner ; for she could not bear the child to be left alone in 
such a mood. And she was sure that the best thing for her 
would be to spend the day with her cheery old grandmother. 
But as she was leaving the shop, Mr. Kitely came in, his large, 
bold, sharp face fresh as a north wind without a touch of east 


96 Guild Court, 

in it. Lucy preferred her request about Mattie, and he grant- 
ed it cordially. 

"Tm afraid, Mr. Kitely,” said Lucy, ^"the darling is not 
well. She has such strange fancies.” 

Oh, I don’t know,” returned the bookseller, with mingled 
concern at the suggestion and refusal to entertain it. She’s 
always 'been a curious child. Her mother was like that, you 
see, and she takes after her. Perhaps she does want a little 
more change. I don’t think she’s been out of this street, now, 
all her life. But she’ll shake it off as she gets older, I have 
no doubt.” 

So saying, he turned into his shop, and Lucy went home. 
In half an hour she went back for Mattie, and leaving the two 
together, of whom the child, in all her words and ways, seemed 
the older, set out for the West End, where Mrs. Morgenstem 
was anxiously hoping for her appearance, seeing she depend- 
ed much upon her assistance in the treat she was giving to 
certain poor people of her acquaintance. By any person but 
Mattie, Mrs. Morgenstem would have been supposed to be lit- 
erally fulfilling the will of our Lord in asking only those who 
could not return her invitation. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE JEWESS AND HEK NEIGHBORS. 

Mrs. Morgenstern looked splendid as she moved about 
among the hot-house plants, arranging them in the hall, on 
the stairs, and in the drawing-rooms. She judged, and judged 
rightly, that one ought to be more anxious to show honor to 
poor neighbors by putting on her best attire, than to ordinary 
guests of her own rank. Therefore, although it was the morn- 
ing, she had put on a dress of green silk, trimmed with brown 
silk and rows of garnet buttons, which set off her dark com- 
plexion and her rich black hair, plainly braided down her 
face, and loosely gathered behind. She was half a head taller 
than Lucy, who was by no means short. The two formed a 
beautiful contrast. Lucy was dark-haired and dark-eyed as 
well as Mrs. Morgenstem, but had a smaller face and features, 
regular to a rare degree. Her high, close-fitting dress of black 


97 


The Jewess and her Neighbors, 

silk, with a plain linen collar and cuffs, left her loveliness all 
to itself. Lucy was neither strikingly beautiful nor remark- 
ably intellectual : when one came to understand what it was 
that attracted him so much, he found that it was the wonder- 
ful harmony in her. As Wordsworth prophesied for his Lucy 
that ‘‘beauty born of murmuring sound ‘should’ pass into 
her face,” so it seemed as if the harmonies which flowed from 
her father’s fingers had molded her form and face, her mo- 
tions and thoughts, after their own fashion, even to a harmony 
which soothed before one knew that he was receiving it, anil 
when he had discovered its source, made him ready to quote 
the words of Sir Philip Sidney — 


Just accord all music makes : 

In thee just accord excelleth. 

Where each part in such peace dwelleth, 

Each of other beauty takes. 

I have often wondered how it was that Lucy was capable of 
so much ; how it was, for instance, that, in the dispensing of 
Mrs. Morgenstern’s bounty, she dared to make her way into 
places where no one but herself thought it could be safe for 
her to go, but where not even a rude word was ever directed 
against her or used with regard to her. If she had been as 
religious as she afterward became, I should not have won- 
dered thus ; for some who do not believe that God is any- 
where in these dens of what looks to them all misery, will 
dare everything to rescue their fellow-creatures from impend- 
ing fate. But Lucy had no theories to spur or to support her. 
She never taught them any religion ; she was only, without 
knowing it, a religion to their eyes. I conclude, therefore, 
that at this time it was just the harmony of which I have 
spoken that led her, protected her, and, combined with a dim 
consciousness that she must be doing right in follovting out 
the loving imjiulses of her nature, supported her in the disa- 
greeable circumstances into which she was sometimes brought. 

While they were thus busy with the flowers, Miriam joined 
them. She had cast her neutral tints, and appeared in a 
frock of dark red, with a band of gold in her dusky hair, som- 
berly rich. She was a strange-looking child, one of those 
whose coming beauty promises all the more that it has as yet 
reached only the stage of interesting ugliness. Splendid eyes, 
olive complexion, rounded cheeks, v^ere accompanied by a 
very unfinished nose, and a large mouth, with thick though 
7 


98 


Guild Court, 


finely-modeled lips. She would be a glory some day. She 
fiitted into the room, and fiew from flower to flower like one 
of those black and red butterflies that Scotch children call 
witches. The sight nf her brought to Lucy’s mind by contrast 
the pale face and troubled brow of Mattie, and she told Mrs. 
Morgenstern about her endeavor to persuade the child to come, 
and how and why she had failed. Mrs. Morgenstern did not 
laugh much at the story, but she very nearly did something 
else. 

^^Oh! do go and bring little Mattie,” said Miriam. 
will be very kind to her. I will give her my doll’s house ; for 
I shall be too big for it next year.” 

“But I left her taking care of my grandmother,” said Lucy, 
to the truth of whose character it belonged to make no con- 
cealment of the simplicity of the household conditions of her- 
self and her grandmother. . “And,” she added, “if she were 
to come I must stay, and she could not come without me.” 

“ But I’ll tell you what — couldn’t you bring the other — the 
little Poppie she talks about ? I should like to show ]\Iattie 
that we’re not quite so bad as she thinks us. Do you know 
this Poppie ? ” said Mrs. Morgenstern. 

Then Lucy told her what she knew about Poppie. She 
had been making inquiries in the neighborhood, and though 
she had not traced the child to head-quarters anywhere, every- 
body in the poor places in which she had sought infoimation 
knew something about her, though all they knew put together 
did not come to much. She slept at the top of a stair here, 
in the bottom of a cupboard there, coiling herself up in 
spaces of incredible smallness ; but no one could say where 
her home was, or, indeed, if she had any home. ISTor, if she 
wanted to find her, was it of much consequence whether she 
knew her home or not, for that would certainly be the last 
place where Poppie would be found. 

“But,” she concluded, “if you would really like to have 
her, I will go and try if I can find her. I could be back in an 
hour and a half or so.” 

“You shall have the brougham.” 

“ No, no,” interrupted Lucy. “ To go in a brougham to 
look for Poppie would be like putting salt on a bird’s tail. 
Besides, I should not like the probable consequences of seating 
her in your carriage. But I should like to see how that wild 
little savage would do in such a place as this.” 

“ Oh, do go,” cried Miriam, clapping her hands. “ It will 
be such fun ! ” , 


99 


Tlie Jewess and her Neighbors. 

Lucy ran for lier bonnet, witli great doubts of success, yet 
willing to do her best to find the child. She did not know 
that Poppie had followed her almost to Mrs. Morgenstern’s 
door that very morning. 

hTow what made Lucy sufficiently hopeful of finding Poppie 
to start in pursuit of her, was the fact that she had of late 
seen the child so often between Guild Court and a certain 
other court in the neighborhood of Shoreditch. But Lucy 
did not know that it was because she was there that Poppie 
was there. She had not for some time, as I have said, paid 
her usual visits at Mrs. Morgen stern’s because of her grand- 
mother’s illness ; and when she did go out she had gone only 
to the place I have just mentioned, where the chief part of 
her work among the poor lay. Poppie haunting her as she 
did, where Lucy was there she saw Poppie. And, indeed, if 
Poppie had any ties to one place more than a hundred others, 
that place happened to be Staines Court. 

When Lucy came out of Mrs. Morgenstern’s, if she had 
only gone the other way, she would have met Poppie coming 
round the next corner. After Lucy had vanished, Poppie had 
found a penny in the gutter, had bought a fresh roll with it 
and given the half of it to a child younger than herself, whom 
she met at the back of the Marylebone police station, and after 
contemplating the neighboring church-yard through the rail- 
ings while they ate their roll together, and comparing this 
resting-place of the dead with the grand Baker Street Ceme- 
tery, she had judged it time to scamper back to the neigh- 
borhood of Wyvil Place, that she might have a chance of 
seeing the beautiful lady as she came out again. As she 
turned the corner she saw her walking away toward the sta- 
tion, and after following her till she entered it, scudded off 
for the city, and arrived in the neighborhood of Guild Court 
before the third train reached Farringdon Street, to which 
point only was the railway then available. 

Lucy walked straight to Staines Court, where she was glad 
of the opportunity of doing some business of loving kindness 
at the same time that she sought Poppie. The first house she 
entered was in a dreadful condition of neglect. There were 
hardly more balusters in the stairs than served to keep the 
filthy hand-rail in its place ; and doubtless they would by and 
by follow the fate of the rest, and vanish as fire-wood. One 
or two of the stairs, even, were torn to pieces for the same pur- 
pose, and the cupboard doors of the room into which Lucy 
entered had vanished, with half the skirting board and some 


100 


Guild Court, 


of the flooring, revealing the joists, and the ceiling of the 
room below. All this dilapidation did not matter much in 
summer weather, but how would it he in the winter — except 
the police condemned the building before then, and because 
the wretched people who lived in it could get no better, decreed 
that so far they should have no shelter at all ? Well, when 
the winter came, they would just go on making larger and 
larger holes to let in the wind, and fight the cold by burning 
their protection against it. 

In this room there was nobody. Something shining in a 
dingy sunbeam that fell upon one of the holes in the floor, 
caught Lucy’s eye. She stooped, and putting in her hand, 
drew out a bottle. At the same moment she let it fall back 
into the hole, and started with a sense of theft. 

Don’t touch Mrs. Flanaghan’s gin bottle, lady. She’s a 
good ’un to swear, as you’d be frightened to hear her. She 
gives me the creepers sometimes, and I’m used to her. She 
says it’s all she’s got in the world, and she’s ready to die for 
the ^ould bottle.’” 

It was Poppie’s pretty, dirty face and wild, black eyes that 
looked round the door-post. 

Lucy felt considerably relieved. She replaced the bottle 
carefully, saying as she rose : 

I didn’t mean to steal it, Poppie. I only saw it shining, 
and wanted to know what it was. Suppose I push it a little 
further in, that the sun ma3rn’t be able to see it ? ” 

Poppie thought this was fun, and showed her white teeth. 

But it was you I was looking for — not in that hole, you 
know,” added Lucy, laughing. 

I think I could get into it, if I was to put my clothes oil,’* 
said Poppie. 

Lucy thought it would be a tight fit indeed, if her clothes 
made any difference. 

Will you come with me ? ” she said. I want you.” 

Yes, lady,” answered Poppie, looking, though, as if she 
would bolt in a moment. 

Come, then,” said Lucy, approaching her where she stood 
still in the doorway. 

But before she reached her, Poppie scudded, and was at the 
bottom of the stair before Lucy recovered from the surprise of 
her sudden flight. She saw at once that it would not do to 
make persistent advances, or show the least desire to get a 
hold of her. 

When she got to the last landing-place on the way down. 


101 


Tl}^ Jeioess and lier Neighbors, 

there was Poppie’s face waiting for her in the door below. 
Careful as one who fears to startle a half-tamed creature with 
wings, Lucy again approached her ; but she vanished again, 
and she saw no more of her till she was at the mouth of the 
court. There was Poppie once more, to vanish yet again. In 
some unaccountable way she seemed to divine where Lucy was 
going, and with endless evanishments still reappeared in front 
of her, till she reached the railway station. And there was 
no Poppie. 

For a moment Lucy was dreadfully disappointed. She had 
not yet had a chance of trying her powers of persuasion upon 
the child ; she had not been within arm’s length of her. And 
she stood at the station door, hot, tired, and disappointed — 
with all the holiday feeling gone out of her. 

Poppie had left her, because she had no magic word by 
which to gain access to the subterranean regions of the guarded 
railway. She thought Lucy was going back to the great house 
in Wyvul Place ; but whether Poppie left her to perform the 
same journey on foot, I do not know. She had scarcely lost 
sight of Lucy, however, before she caught sight of Thomas 
Worboise, turning the corner of a street a hundred yards oh'. 
She darted after him, and caught him by the tail of his coat. 
He turned on her angrily, and shook her off. 

‘‘ The lady,” gasped Poppie ; but Thomas would not listen, 
and went on his way. Poppie in her turn was disappointed, 
and stood ^Hike one forbid.” But at that very moment her 
eye fell on something in the kennel. She was always finding 
things, though they were generally the veriest trifles. The 
penny of that morning was something almost awful in its 
importance. This time it was a bit of red glass. Now Poppie 
had quite as much delight in colored glass as Lord Bacon had, 
who advised that hedges in great gardens should be adorned 
on the top here and there ‘‘with broad plates of round, colored 
glass, gilt, for the sun to play upon,” only as she had less of 
the ways and means of procuring what she valued, she valued 
what she could lay her hands upon so much the more. She 
darted at the red shine, wiped it on her frock, sucked it clean 
in her mouth, as clean as her bright ivories, and polished it 
up with her hands, scudding all the time, in the hope that 
Lucy might be at the station still. Poppie did not seek to 
analyze her feelings in doing as she did ; but what she wanted 
was to give Lucy her treasure-trove. She never doubted that 
what was valuable to her would be valuable to a beautiful lady. 
As little did she imagine how much value, as the gift of a 


102 


Guild Court 


ragged little personage like herself, that which was all but 
worthless would acquire in the eyes of a lady beautiful as Lucy 
was beautiful, with the beauty of a tender human heart. 

Lucy was sitting in the open waiting-room, so weary and 
disappointed that little would have made her cry. She had 
let one train go on the vague chance that the erratic little 
maiden might yet show herself, but her last hope was almost 
gone when, to her great delight, once more she spied the odd 
creature peeping round the side of the door. She had presence 
of mind enough not to rise, lest she should startle the human 
lapwing, and made her a sign instead to come to her. This 
being just what Poppie wished at the moment, she obeyed. 
She darted up to Lucy, put the piece of red glass into her 
hand, and would have been off again like a low-flying swallow, 
had not Lucy caught her by the arm. Once caught, Poppie 
never attempted to struggle. On this occasion she only showed 
her teeth in a rather constrained smile, and stood still. Lucy, 
however, did not take her hand from her arm, for she felt that 
the little phenomenon would disappear at once if she did. 

Poppie,” she said, want you to come with me.” 

Poppie only grinned again. So Lucy rose, still holding her 
by the arm, and went to the ticket- window and got two sec- 
ond-class tickets. Poppie went on grinning, and accompanied 
her down the stairs without one obstructive motion. 

When they were fairly seated in the carriage, and there was 
no longer any danger of her prisoner attempting to escape, 
Lucy thought of the something Poppie had given her, at 
which she had not even looked, so anxious was she to secure 
her bird. When she saw it, she comprehended it at once — 
the sign of love, the appeal of a half -savage sister to one of her 
own kind, in whom she dimly recognized her far-off ideal ; 
even then not seeking love from the higher, only tendering 
the richest human gift, simple love, unsought, unbought. 
Thus a fragment dropped by some glazier as he went to mend 
the glass door leading into a garden, and picked out of the 
gutter by a beggar girl, who had never yet thought whether 
she had had a father or a mother, became in that same girl’s 
hands a something which the Lord himself, however some of 
his interpreters might be shocked at the statement, would 
have recognized as partaking of the character of his own eu- 
charist. And as such, though without thinking of it after 
that fashion, it was received by the beautiful lady. The tears 
came into her eyes. Poppie thought she had offended or dis- 
appointed her, and looked very grave. Lucy saw she had 


103 


The Jeivess and her Neighbors, 

misunderstood her. There was no one in the carriage with 
them. She stooped and kissed her. Then the same tears 
came, almost for the first time since she had been an infant, 
into Poppie’s eyes. But just then the train moved off, and 
although the child by no remark and no motion evinced aston- 
ishment any more than fear, she watched everything with the 
intensity of an animal which in new circumstances cannot 
afford to lose one moment of circumspection, seeing a true 
knowledge of the whole may be indispensable to the retention 
of its liberty ; and before they reached King’s Cross, her eyes 
were clear, and only a channel on each cheek, ending in a little 
mud-bank, showed that just two tears had fiowed half way 
down her cheeks and dried there undisturbed in the absorption 
of her interest. 

Before tliey reached Baker Street station, Lucy had begun 
to be anxious as to how she should get her charge through the 
streets. But no sooner were they upon the stairs, than Lucy 
perceived by the way in which Poppie walked, and the way in 
which she now and then looked up at her, that there was no 
longer any likelihood that she would run away from her. 
When they reached the top, she took her by the hand, and, 
without showing the slightest inclination to bolt, Poppie trot- 
ted alongside of her to Mrs. Morgenstern’s door. Having 
gained her purpose, Lucy’s weariness had quite left her, and 
her eyes shone with triumph. They made a strange couple, 
that graceful lady and that ragged, bizarre child, who would, 
however, have shown herself lovely to any eyes keen enough to 
see through the dirt which came and went according to laws 
as unknown to Poppie as if it had been a London fog. 

Lucy knocked at the door. It was opened by a huge porter 
in a rich livery, and shoulder-knots like the cords of a coffin, 
as if he were about to be lowered into his grave standing. He 
started at sight of the little city Bedouin, but stood aside to 
let them enter, with all the respect which, like the rest of his 
class, he ever condescended to show to those who, like Miss 
Burton, came to instruct Miss Morgenstern, and gave him, so 
much their superior, the trouble of opening the door to them. 
The pride of the proudest nobleman or parvenu-millionaire 
is entirely cast in the shade by the pride of his servants, justi- 
fying the representation of Spenser, that although Orgoglio is 
the son of Terra by ^oius, he cannot be raised to his full 
giantship without the aid of his foster-father Ignaro. Lucy, 
however, cared as little for this form of contempt as imper- 
vious little Poppie by her side, who trotted as unconcerned 


104 


Guild Court, 


over the black and white lozenges of the marble floor as over 
the ordinary slabs of Guild Court, or the round stones of 
Staines Court, and looked up the splendid stair-case which 
rose from the middle of the round hall till it reached its side, 
and then branched into tv/o that ran circling and ascending 
the wall to the floor above, its hand-rails and balusters shining 
with gold, and its steps covered with a carpet two yards wide, 
in which the foot sank as if in grass, with as much indifler- 
ence as if it were the break-neck stair-case I have already de- 
scribed as leading to the abode of Mistress Flanaghan. But 
her little bare feet were not destined to press such a luxurious 
support ; better things awaited them, namely, the grass itself ; 
for the resplendent creature whose head and legs were equally 
indebted to the skill of the cunning workman, strode on be- 
fore them, and through a glass door at the back, to a lavui 
behind, such as few London dwellings have to show. They 
might have thought that they had been transported by en- 
chantment to some country palace, so skillfully were the 
neighboring houses hidden by the trees that encircled the 
garden. Mrs. Morgenstern, with a little company of her 
friends, was standing in the middle of the lawn, while many 
of her poorer neiglibors were wandering about the place en- 
joying the flowers, and what to them was indeed fresh air, 
when Lucy came out with the dirty, bare-legged child in her 
hand. All eyes turned upon her, and a lovelier girl doing 
lovelier deed would have taken more than that summer morn- 
ing to discover. 

But Lucy had the bit of red glass in her mind, and, with- 
out heeding hostess or friends for the moment, led Poppie 
straight toward a lovely rose-tree that stood in full blossom on 
one side of the lawn. How cool that kindly humble grass 
must have felt to the hot feet of the darling ! But she had no 
time to think about it. For as she drew near the rose-tree, 
her gaze became more and more fixed upon it ; when at length 
she stood before it, and beheld it in all its glory, she burst 
into a very passion of weeping. The eyes of the daughter of 
man became rivers, and her head a fountain of waters, filled 
and glorified by the presence of a rose-tree. All that were 
near gathered about, till Lucy, Poppie, and the rose-tree were 
the center of a group. Lucy made no attempt to stay the 
flow of Poppie’s tears, for her own heart swelled and swelled 
at the sight of the child’s feelings. Surely it was the pres- 
ence of God that so moved her : if ever bush burned with fire 
and was not consumed, that rose-bush burned with the pres- 


105 


The Jeioess and her Neighbors, 

ence of God. Poppie had no handkerchief ; nor was there 
continuity of space enough in her garments to hold a pocket : 
she generally carried things in her mouth when they were 
small enough to go in. And she did not even put her hands 
to her face to hide her emotion. She let her tears run down 
her stained cheeks, and let sob follow sob unchecked, gazing 
ever through the storm of her little world at the marvel in 
front of her. She had seen a rose before, but had never seen 
a rose-tree full of roses. At last Lucy drew her handkerchief 
from her pocket, and for the first time in her life Poppie had 
tears wiped from her face by a loving hand. 

There was one man, and only one, in the company — Mr. 
Sargent, a young barrister. He was the first to speak. He 
drew near to Lucy and said, in a half whisper : 

Where did you find the little creature. Miss Burton ? ” 
That would be hard to say,” answered Lucy, with a smile. 
‘‘Isn’t she a darling 

“You are a darling, anyhow,” said Mr. Sargent, but neither 
to Lucy nor to any one but himself. He had been like one of 
the family for many years, for his father and Mr. Morgenstern 
had been intimate, and he had admired Lucy ever since she 
went first to the house ; but ho had never seen her look so 
lovely as she looked that morning. 

Certain harmonious circumstances are always necessary to 
bring out the peculiar beauty both of persons and things — a 
truth recognized by Emerson in his lovely poem called “ Each 
and All,” bat recognized imperfectly, inasmuch as he seems to 
represent the beauty of each as dependent on the all not mere- 
ly for its full manifestation, but for its actual being ; a truth 
likewise recognized by Shakespeare, but by him with absolute 
truth of vision — 

The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 

When every goose is cackling, would be thought 
No better a musician than the wren. 

How many things hy season seasoned are 
To their right praise and true perfection ! 

It was to the praise of Lucy’s beauty that in this group she 
should thus look more beautiful. The rose-tree and the splen- 
dor of Mrs. Morgenstern did not eclipse her, because her 
beauty was of another sort, which made a lovely haitoony of 
difference with theirs. Or perhaps, after all, it was the rag- 
ged child in her hand that gave a tender glow to her presence 
unseen before. 


106 Guild Court 

Little Miriam pulled at lier mamma’s skirt. She stooped to 
the child. 

Somebody has lost that one,” said Miriam, pointing shyly 
to Poppie. ^^She looks like it.” 

Perhaps,” said her mother. But the answer did not sat- 
isfy Miriam. 

‘‘You told me you had lost a little girl once,” she said. 

Mrs. Morgenstern had never yet uttered the word death in 
her hearing. As to the little dead daughter, she had to the 
sister said only that she had lost her. Miriam had to inter- 
pret the phrase for herself. 

“Yes, dear child,” answered her mother, not yet seeing 
what she was driving at. 

“ Don’t you think, mamma,” pursued Miriam, with the 
tears rising in her great black eyes, “ that that’s her ? I do. 
I am sure it is my little sister.” 

Mrs. Morgenstern had the tenderest memories of her lost 
darling, and turned away to hide her feelings. Meantime a 
little conversation had arisen in the group. Lucy had let go 
her hold of Poppie, whose tears had now ceased. Miriam 
drew near, shyly, and possessed herself of the hand of the va- 
grant. Her mother turned and saw her, and motherhood 
spoke aloud in her heart. How did it manifest itself ? In 
drawing her child away from the dirt that divided their hands ? 
That might have proved her a dam, but would have gone far 
to disprove her motherhood. 

“What shall we do with her, Miriam ?” she said. 

“ Ask nurse to wash her in the bath, and put one of my 
frocks on her. ” 

Poppie snatched her hand from Miriam’s, and began to 
look about her with wild-eyed search after a hole to run into. 
Mrs. Morgenstern saw that she was frightened, and turned 
away to Lucy, who was on the other side of the rose-tree, 
talking to Mr. Sargent. 

“ Couldn’t we do something to make the child tidy, Lucy ? ” 
she said. 

Lucy gave her shoulders a little shrug, as much as to say she 
feared it would not be of much use. She was wrong there, for 
if the child should never be clean again in her life, no one 
could tell how the growth of moral feeling might be aided in 
her by her once knowing what it was to have a clean skin and 
clean garments. It might serve hereafter, in her conscious- 
ness, as a t 3 rpe of something better still than personal cleanli- 
ness, might work in aid of her consciousness as a vague re- 


107 


The Jeioess and her Neighbors. 

minder of ideal purity — not altogether pleasant to her igno- 
rant fancy, and yet to be — faintly and fearingly — desired. But 
although Lucy did not see much use in washing her, she 
could not help wondering what she would look like if she 
were clean. And she proceeded to carry out her friend’s 
wishes. 

Poppie was getting bored already with the unrealized world 
of grandeur around her. The magic of the roses was all gone, 
and she was only looking out for a chance of scudding. Yet 
when Lucy spoke to her she willingly yielded her hand, per- 
haps in the hope that she was, like Peter’s angel, about to 
open the prison-doors, and lead her out of her prison. 

Lucy gave an amusing account of how Poppie looked 
askance, with a mingling of terror and repugnance, at the 
great bath, half full of water, into which she was about to be 
plimged. But the door was shut, and there was not even a 
chimney for her to run up, and she submitted. She looked 
even pleased when she was at length in the midst of the water. 
But Lucy found that she had undertaken a far more difficult 
task than she had expected — especially when she came to her 
hair. It was nearly two hours, notwithstanding repeated mes- 
sages from Mrs. Morgenstern and tappings at the door of the 
bath-room by Miriam, before she was able to reproduce the lit- 
tle savage on whom she had been bestowing this baptism of 
love. 

When she came down at last, the company, consisting of 
some of Mrs. Morgenstern’s more intimate friends, and a 
goodly number of clients if not exactly dependents, was seated 
at luncheon in the large dining-room. Po]3pie attracted all 
eyes once more. She was dressed in a last year’s summer frock 
of Miriam’s, and her hair was reduced to order ; but she had 
begun to cry so piteously when Lucy began to put stockings 
upon her, that she gave it up at once, and her legs were still 
bare. I presume she saw the last remnants of her freedom 
vanishing in those and fetters. But nice and clean as 

she looked, she certainly had lost something by her decent 
garments. Poppie must have been made for rags and rags for 
Poppie — they went so admirably together. And there is noth- 
ing wicked in rags or in poverty. It is possible to go in rags 
and keep the Ten Commandments, and it is possible to ride in 
purple and fine linen and break every one of them. Nothing, 
however, could spoil the wildness of those honestly furtive 
eyes. 

Seated beside Lucy at the table, she did nothing but first 


108 


Guild Court 


stare, then dart her eyes from one to another of the company 
with the scared expression of a creature caught in a trap, and 
then stare again. She was evidently anything but comfortable. 
When Lucy spoke to her she did not reply, but gazed appeal- 
ingly, and on the point of crying, into her eyes, as if to say. 

What have I done to be punished in this dreadful manner ? ’’ 
Lucy tried hard to make her eat, but she sat and stared and 
would touch nothing. Her plate, with the wing of a chicken 
on it, stood before her unregarded. But all at once she 
darted out her hand like the paw of a wild beast, caught 
something, slipped from her chair, and disappeared under the 
table. Peeping down after her, Lucy saw her seated on the 
floor, devouring the roll which had been put by the side of hex 
plate. Judging it best not to disturb her, she took no more 
notice of her for some time, during which Poppie, having dis- 
covered a long row of resplendent buttons down the front of 
her dress, twisted them all oft with a purpose manifested as 
soon as the luncheon was over. When the company rose from 
their seats, she crawled out from under the table and ran to 
Miriam, holding out both her hands. Miriam held out her 
hands to meet Poppie’s, and received them full of the buttons 
oft her own old frock. 

Oh ! you naughty Poppie,” said Lucy, who had watched 
her. Why did you cut oft the buttons ? Don’t you like 
them ? ” 

Oh ! 
up if she 

Poppie had no idea that she had done anything improper. 
It was not as buttons, but per se, as pretty things, that she 
admired the knobs, and therefore she gave them to Miriam. 
Having said thus, she caught at another tommy, as she would 
have called it, dived under the table again, and devoured it at 
her ease, keeping, however, a sharp eye upon her opportunity. 
Finding one when Lucy, who had remained in the room to 
look after her, was paying more attention to the party in the 
garden, she crawled out at the door, left oj)cn during the pro- 
cess of talcing away, and with her hand on the ponderous lock 
of the street door, found herself seized from behind by the 
porter. She had been too long a pupil of the London streets not 
to know the real position of the liveried in the social scale, and 
for them she had as little respect as any of her tribe. She 
therefore assailed him with such a torrent of bad language, 
scarcely understanding a v/ord that she used, that he declared 
it made his ’air stand on hend,” although he was tolerably 


golly ! don’t I just ? And so does she. Tuck me 
don’t!” 


109 


Tlie Jewess and Iver Neighbors. 

familiar with such at the Spotted Dog round the corner. 
Finding, however, that this discharge of cuttle-fish ink had 
no effect upon the enemy, she tried another mode — and, with 
a yell of pain, the man fell back, shaking his hand, which 
bore the marks of four sharp incisors. In one moment Pop- 
pie was free, and scudding. Thus ended her introduction to 
civilized life. 

Poppie did not find it nice. She preferred all London to 
the biggest house and garden in it. True, there was that 
marvelous rose-tree. But free-born creatures cannot live upon 
the contemplation of roses. After all, the thing she had been 
brought up to — the streets, the kennels with tlieir occasional 
crusts, pennies, and bits of glass, the holes to creep into, and 
the endless room for scudding— was better. And her unsuit- 
able dress, which did attract the eyes of the passers — being 
such as was seldom seen in connection with bare hair and legs — 
would soon accommodate itself to circumstances, taking the 
form of rags before a week was over, to which change of con- 
dition no care of Poppie’s would interpose an obstacle. For, 
like the birds of the air and the lilies of the field, she had no 
care. She did not know what it meant. And possibly the 
great One who made her may have different ideas about respect- 
ability from those of dining aldermen and members of Parlia- 
ment from certain boroughs that might be named. 

At the porter’s cry Lucy started, and found to her dismay 
that her charge was gone. She could not, however, help a 
certain somewhat malicious pleasure at the man’s discomfiture 
and the baby-like way in which he lamented over his bitten fin- 
ger. He forgot himself so far as to call her the little devil ” — 
which was quite in accordance with his respectable way of 
thinking. Both Mrs. Morgenstern and Lucy, after the first 
disappointment and vexation were over, laughed heartily at 
the affair, and even Miriam was worked up to a smile at last. 
But she continued very mournful, notwithstanding, over the 
loss of her sister, as she v/ould call her. 

Mr. Sargent did his best to enliven the party. He was a 
man of good feeling, and of more than ordinary love for the 
right. This, however, from a dread of what he would have 
called sentimentality^ he persisted in regarding as a mere pecu- 
liarity, possibly a weakness. If he made up his mind to help 
any one who was wronged, for which it must be confessed he 
had more time than he would have cared to acknowledge, he 
would say that he had taken an interest in such or such a 
case;” or that the case involved points of interest,^’ which 


no 


Guild Court, 


he was willing to see settled.” He neyer said that he wanted 
to see right done : that would have been enthusiastic, and un- 
worthy of the cold dignity of a lawyer. So he was one of those 
false men, alas too few ! who always represent themselves as 
inferior to what they are. Many and various were the jokes 
he made upon Poppie and Jeames, ever, it must be confessed, 
with an eye to the approbation of Miss Burton. He declared, 
for instance, that the Armageddon of class-legislature would 
be fought between those of whom the porter and Poppie were 
the representatives, and rejoiced that, as in the case of the 
small quarrel between Fitz James and Roderick Dhu, Poppie 
had drawn the first blood, and gained thereby a good omen. 
And Lucy was pleased with him, it must be confessed. She 
never thought of comparing him with Thomas, which was well 
for Thomas. But she did think he was a very clever, gentle- 
manly fellow, and knew how to make himself agreeable. 

He offered to see her home, which she declined, not even 
permitting him to walk with her to the railway. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE TWO OLD WOMEH. 


She found the two old women, of whom Mattie still seemed 
the older, seated together at their tea. Hot a ray of the after- 
noon sun could find its way into the room. It was dusky and 
sultry, with a smell of roses. This, and its strange mingling 
of furniture, made it like a room over a broker’s in some coun- 
try town. 

^^Well, Miss Burton, here you are at last!” said Mattie, 
with a half smile on the half of her mouth. 

Yes, Mattie, here I am. Has grandmother been good to 
you?” 

Of course she has — ^very good. Everybody is good to me, 
I am a very fortunate child, as my father says, though he 
never seems to mean it.” 

And how do you think your patient is ? ” asked Lucy, 
while Mrs. Boxall sat silent, careful not to obstruct the amuse- 
ment which the child’s answers must give them. 

Well, I do not think Mrs. Boxall is worse. She has been very 


The Two Old Women, 


111 


good, and has done everything I found myself obliged to rec- 
ommend. I would not let her get up so soon as she wanted 
to.’’ 

And what did you do to keep her in bed ? ” asked Lucy. 

Well, I could not think of a story to tell her just then, so 
I got the big Bible out of the bookcase, and began to show 
her the pictures. But she did not care about that. I think 
it was my fault, though, because I was not able to hold the 
book so that she could see them properly. So I read a story 
to her, but I do not think I chose a very nice one.” 

Mrs. Boxall made a deprecating motion with her head and 
hands, accompanied by the words — 

She will say what she thinks — Bible or Prayer-book.” 

Well, and where’s the harm, when I mean none ? Who’s 
to be angry at that ? I will say,” Mattie went on, ^Hhat it 
was an ugly trick of that woman to serve a person that never 
did her any harm ; and I wonder at two sensible women like 
Mrs. Boxall and Deborah sticking up for her.” 

^^Is it Jael she means, grannie ?” asked Lucy, very softly. 

Yes, it is Jael she means,” answered Mattie for herself, 
with some defiance in her tone. 

‘‘For my part,” she continued, ‘^1 think it was just like 
one of Syne’s tricks.” 

Have you seen Mr. Spelt to-day, Mattie ? ” asked Lucy, 
desirous of changing the subject, because of the direction the 
child’s thoughts had taken. 

^MYell, I haven’t,” answered Mattie, ‘^and I will go and 
see now whether he’s gone or not. But don’t you fancy that 
I don’t see through it for all that. Miss Burton,” she contin- 
ued. I shouldn’t have been in the way, though — ^not much, 
for I like to see young people enjoying themselves.” 

What do you mean, Slattie ?” asked Lucy with a bewil- 
derment occasioned rather by the quarter whence the words 
proceeded than by the words themselves ; for she did expect 
to see Thomas that evening. 

Mattie vouchsafed no reply to the question, but bade them 
good-night, the one and the other, with an evident expression 
of hauteur, and marched solemnly down the stairs, holding 
carefully by the balusters, for she was too small to use the 
hand-rail comfortably. 

Mr. Spelt’s roost was shut up for the night : he had gone to 
take some work home. Mattie therefore turned toward her 
father’s shop. 

In the archway she ran against Thomas, or, more properly. 


112 


Guild Court 


Thomas ran against her, for Mattie never ran at all, so that 
he had to clasp her to prevent her from falling. 

‘‘Well, you needn’t be in such a hurry, Mr. Thomas, though 
she is a-waiting for you. She won’t go till you come, 1 
know.” 

“You’re a cheeky little monkey,” said Thomas, good na- 
turedly. But the words were altogether out of tune with the 
idea of Mattie, who again felt her dignity invaded, and walked 
into the shop with her chin projecting more than usual. 

“ Come, my princess,” said her father, seating himself in an 
old chair, and taking the child on his knee. “ I haven’t seen 
my princess all day. How’s your royal highness this night ? ” 

Mattie laid her head on his shoulder, and burst into tears. 

“V/hat’s the matter with my pet ?” said her father, fond- 
ling and soothing her with much concern. “Has anybody 
been unkind to you ? ” 

“No, Mr. Kitely,” said the child, “but I feel that lonely ! 
I wish you would read to me a bit, for Mr. Spelt ain’t there, 
and I read something in the Bible this morning that ain’t 
done me no good.” 

“ You sliouldn’t read such things, Mattie,” said the book- 
seller. “ They ain’t no good. I’ll go and get a candle. Sit 
you there till I come back.” 

“No, no, father. Don’t leave me here. I don’t like the 
books to-night. Take me with you. Carry me. ” 

The father obeyed at once, took his child on his arm, got a 
candle from the back room, for the place was very dusky — he 
did not care to light the gas this time of the year — and sat 
down with Mattie in a part of the shop v/hich was screened 
from the door, where he could yet hear every footstep that 
passed. 

“What shall I read now, my precious ?” he asked. 

“ Well, I don’t think I care for anything but the New Testa- 
ment to-night, father.” 

“ Why, you’ve just been saying it disagreed with you this 
very morning,” objected Mr. Kitely. 

“ No, father. It wasn’t the New Testament at all. It was 
the very old Testament, I believe ; for it was near the begin- 
ning of it, and told all about a horrid murder. I do believe,” 
she added, reflectively, “that that book grows better as it gets 
older —younger, I mean.” 

The poor child wanted some one to help her out of her Bible 
difiieulties, and her father certainly was not the man to do so, 
for he believed nothing about or in it. Like many other chil- 


The Two Old Women, 


113 


dren far more carefully taught of man, she was laboring under 
the misery of the fancy that everything related in the Old 
Testament without remark of disapprobation is sanctioned by 
the divine will. If parents do not encourage their children to 
speak their minds about what they read generally, and espe- 
cially in the Bible, they will one day be dismayed to find that 
they have not merely the strangest but the most deadly notions 
of what is contained in that book — as, for instance, besides the 
one in hand, that God approved of all the sly tricks of Jacob — 
for was not he the religious one of the brothers, and did not 
all his tricks succeed ? They are not able without help to 
regard the history broadly, and see that just because of this 
bad that was in him, he had to pass through a life of varied 
and severe suffering, punished in the vices which his children 
inherited from himself, in order that the noble part of his 
nature might be burned clean of the filth that clung to it. 

Such was Mr, Kitely’s tenderness over his daughter, increased 
by some signs he had begun to see of the return cf an affection 
of the brain from which he had been on the point of losing 
her some years before, that he made no further opposition, 
but, rising again, brought an old ‘^breeches Bible ’’from a 
shelf, and, taking her once more on his knee, supported her 
with one hand and held the book with the other. 

Well, I don’t know one chapter from another,” reflected 
Mr. Kitely aloud. I wonder where the child would like me 
to read. I’m sure I can’t tell what to read.” 

‘^Eead about Somebody , said Mattie. 

From the peculiar expression she gave to the word, her 
father guessed at her meaning, and opening the gospel part of 
the book at random, began to read. 

He read, from the Gospel by St. Matthew, the story of the 
Transfiguration, to which Mattie listened without word or 
motion. He then went on to the following story of the luna- 
tic and apparently epileptic boy. As soon as he began to read 
the account of how the child was vexed, Mattie said conclu- 
sively : 

That was Syne. I know him. He’s been at it for a long 
time.” 

^ And Jesus rebuked the devil ; and he departed out of 
him ; and the child was cured from that very hour,’ ” the 
bookseller went on reading in a subdued voice, partly because 
he sat in his shop with the door open, partly because not 
even he could read the ancient story, ever new ” without 
feeling a something he could not have quite accounted for if 
8 


114 GuUd Court 

he had thought of trying. But the moment he had read those 
words, Mattie cried : 

There, I knew it ! ’’ 

It must be remembered that Mattie had not read much of 
the New Testament. Mr. Spelt alone had led her to read any. 
Eyerything came new to her, therefore ; cyery word was like 
the rod of "Moses that drew the waters of response. 

"^What did you know, princess ?” asked her father. 

I knew that Somebody would make him mind what he was 
about — I did. I wonder if he let a flash of that light out on 
him that ho shut up inside him again. I shouldn’t wonder if 
that was it. I know Syne couldn’t stand that — no, not for a 
moment. I think I’ll go to bed, Mr. Kitely.’^ 


CHAPTEE XVI. 

OK THE EIYEK, 

Notwithstakdikg the good-humored answer Thomas had 
made to Mattie, her words stuck to him and occasioned him 
a little discomfort. Eor if the bookseller’s daughter, whose 
shop lay between the counting-house and the court, knew so 
well of his yisits to Lucy, how could he hope that they would 
long remain concealed from other and far more dangerous 
eyes. This thought oppressed him so much, that instead of 
paying his usual yisit to Mr. Molken, he went to Mrs. Boxall’s 
at once. There, after greetings, he threw himself on the 
cusliions of the old settle, and was gloomy. Lucy looked at 
him with some concern. Mrs. Boxall murmured something 
about his being in the doldrums — a phrase she had learned 
from her son John. 

Let’s go out, Lucy,” said Thomas ; “ it is so sultry.” 

Lucy was quite ready in herself to comply. Eor one reason, 
she had something upon her mind about which she wanted to 
talk to him. But she objected. 

My grandmother is not flt to be left alone, Thomas,” she 
said, regretfully. 

Oh ! ah ! ” said Thomas. 

^^Neyer mind me, child,” interposed the old woman. 

You’ll make me wish myself in my graye, if you make me 


On the Biver, 


115 


come between young people. You go, my dear, and neyer 
mind me. You needn’t be gone a great while, you know.” 

^^Oh, no, grannie; I’ll be back in an hour, or less, if you 
like,” said Lucy, hastening to put on her bonnet. 

‘‘lSro3 no, my dear. An hour’s in reason. Anything in 
reason, you know.” 

So Lucy made the old lady comfortable in her arm-chair, 
and went out with Thomas. 

The roar of the city had relaxed. There would be no more 
blocks in Gracechurch Street that night. There was little 
smoke in the air, only enough to clothe the dome of St. Paul’s 
in a faintly rosy garment, tinged from the west, where the sun 
was under a cloud. The huge mass looked ethereal, melted 
away as to a shell of thicker air against a background of slate- 
color, where a wind was gathering to flow at sunset through 
the streets and lanes, cooling them from the heat of the day, 
of the friction of iron and granite, of human ellort, and the 
thousand fires that prepared the food of the city-dining popu- 
lation. Crossing the chief thoroughfares, they went down the 
lanes leading to the river. Here they passed through a sultry 
region of aromatic fragrance, where the very hooks that hung 
from cranes in doorways high above the ground, seemed to 
retain something of the odor of the bales they had lifted from 
the wagons below during the hot sunshine that drew out their 
imprisoned essences. By yet closer ways they went toward the 
river, descending still, and at length, by a short wooden stair, 
and a long wooden way, they came on a floating pier. There 
the wind blew sweet and cooling and very grateful, for the 
summer was early and fervid. Down into tlie east the river 
swept away, somber and sullen, to gurgle blindly through the 
jungle of masts that lay below the bridge and crossed the hori- 
zontal lines of the sky with their delicate spars, and yet more 
delicate cordage. Little did Thomas think that one of those 
masts rose from a vessel laden, one might say, with his near, 
though not his final fate — a fate that truth might have averted, 
but which the very absence of truth made needful and salutary. 
A boat was just starting up the river toward the light. 

Let’s have a blow,” said Thomas. 

That will be delightful,” answered Lucy, and they went 
on board. First one wheel, then the other, then both to- 
gether, dashed the Stygian waters of the Thames into a white 
fury, and they were moving up the stream. They went for- 
ward into the bows of the boat to get clear of the smoke, and 
sat down. There were so few on board that they could talk 


116 


Guild Court 


without being overheard. But they sat silent for some time ; 
the stillness of the sky seemed to have sunk into their hearts. 
For that was as pure over their heads as if there had been no 
filthy Thames beneath their feet ; and its light and color illu- 
minated the surface of the river, which was not yet so vile that 
it could not refiect the glory that fell upon its face. The tide 
was against them, and with all the struggles of the little 
steamer they made but slow way up the dark, hurrying water. 
Lucy sat gazing at the banks of the river, where the mighty 
city on either hand has declined into sordid meanness, skele- 
ton exposui’e ; where the struggles of manufacture and com- 
merce are content to abjure their own decencies for the sake 
of the greater gain. Save where the long line of Somerset 
House, and the garden of the Temple asserted the ancient 
dignity of order and cleanliness, the whole looked like a mean, 
tattered, draggled fringe upon a rich garment. Then she 
turned her gaze dovm on the river, which, as if ashamed of 
the condition into which it had fallen from its first estate, 
crawled fiercely away to hide itself in the sea. 

How different,’’ she said, looking up at Thomas, who had 
been sitting gazing at her all the time that she contemplated 
the shore and the river — How different things would be if 
they were only clean ! ” 

Yes, indeed,” returned Thomas. Tliink wdiat it would 
be to see the fishes — the salmon, say — shooting about in clear 
water under us, like so many silver fishes in a crj stal globe ! 
If people were as fond of the cleanliness you want as they are 
of money, things would look very different indeed ! ” 

I have said that Thomas loved Lucy more and more. Partly 
a cause, partly a consequence of this, he had begun to find out 
that there was a poetic clement in her, and he flattered him- 
self that he had developed it. No doubt he had had a share 
in its development, but it w^as of a deeper, truer, simpler kind 
than his own, and would never have been wdiat it was, in rap- 
port always wdth the facts of nature and life, if it had been 
only a feminine response to his. Men like women to reflect 
them, no doubt ; but the woman who can only reflect a man, 
and is nothing in herself, will never be of much service to 
him. The ivornan who cannot stand alone is not likely to 
make either a good wife or mother. She may be a pleasant 
companion so far as the intercourse of love-making goes, no 
doubt — scarcely more ; save, indeed, the trials tliat ensue upon 
marriage bring out the power latent in her. But the remark 
with which Thomas responded to Lucy was quite beyond his 


On the River, 


117 


usual strain. He liad a far liner nature underneath than his 
education had allowed to manifest itself, and the circumstances 
in which he was at the moment were especially favorable to 
his bcsfc. Casca, on his first appearance in Julius Coesar, talks 
blunt and snarling prose : in the very next scene, which is a 
fearfully magnificent thunder-storm, he speaks poetry. 
was quick mettle when he went to school,” and the circum- 
stances brought it out. 

wish the world was clean, Thomas, all through,” said 

Lucy. 

Thomas did not reply. His heart smote him. Those few 
words went deeper than all Mr. Simon’s sermons, public and 
private. For a long time he had not spoken a word about re- 
ligion to Lucy. Nor had what he said ever taken any hold 
upon her intellect, although it had upon her conscience ; for, 
not having been brought up to his vocabulary, and what might 
be called the technical phrases if not slang of his religion, it 
had been to her but a vague sound, which yet she received as 
a reminder of duty. Some healthy religious teaching would 
be of the greatest value to her now. But Mr. Potter provided 
no food beyond the established fare ; and whatever may be 
said about the sufficiency of the church-service, and the use- 
lessness of preaching, I for one believe that a dumb ass, if the 
Lord only opens his mouth, may rebuke much madness of 
prophets, and priests too. But where there is neither honesty 
nor earnestness, as in the case of Mr. Potter, the man is too 
much of an ass for even the Lord to open his mouth to any 
useful purpose. His heart has to be opened first, and that 
takes time and trouble. 

Finding that Thomas remained silent, Lucy looked into his 
face, and saw that he was troubled. This brought to the 
point of speech the dissatisfaction with himself which had 
long been moving restlessly and painfully in his heart, and of 
which the quiet about him, the peace of the sky, and that 
sense of decline and coming repose, which invades even the 
heart of London with the sinking sun, had made him more 
conscious than he had yet been. 

‘^Oh, Lucy,” he said, ‘‘1 wish you would help me to be 
good.” 

To no other could he have said so. Mr. Simon, for instance, 
aroused all that was most contrarious in him. But Lucy at this 
moment seemed so near to him that before her ho could be 
humble without humiliation, and could even enjoy the con- 
fession of weakness implied in his appeal to her for aid. 


118 


Guild Court, 


She looked at him with a wise kind of wonder in her look. 
For a moment she was silent. 

I do not know how I can help yon, Thomas, for you know 
better about all such things than I do. But there is one thing 
I want very much to speak to you about, because it makes me 
unhappy — rather — not very, you know.^’ 

She laid his hand upon his. He looked at her lovingly. 
She was encouraged, and continued : 

I don’t like this way of going on, Thomas. I never quite 
liked it, but I’ve been thinking more about it, lately. I 
thought you must know best, but I am not satisfied with 
myself at all about it.” 

^^What do you mean, Lucy ?” asked Thomas, his heart be- 
ginning already to harden at the approach of definite blame. 
It was all very well for him to speak as if ho might be improved 
— it was another thing for Lucy to do so. 

Do not be vexed with me, Thomas. You must know what 
I mean. I wish your mother knew all about it,” she added, 
hastily, after a j)ause. And then her face flushed red as a 
sunset. 

She’ll know all about it in good time,” returned Thomas, 
testily ; adding, in an undertone, as if he did not mean to 
press the remark, although ho wanted her to hear it : You 
do not know my mother, or you would not be so anxious for 
her to know all about it.” 

Couldn’t you get your father to tell her, then, and make 
it easier for you ? ” 

“My father,” answered Thomas, coolly, “would turn me 
out of the house if I didn’t give you up ; and as I don’t mean 
to do that, and don’t want to bo turned out of the house just 
at present, when I have nowhere else to go, I don’t want to 
tell him.” 

“ I canH go on in this way, then. Besides, they are sure to 
hear of it, somehow.” 

“ Oh, no, they won’t. Who’s to tell them ? ” 

“ Don’t suppose I’ve been listening, Tom, because I heard 
your last words,” said a voice behind them — that of Mr. 
wither. “I haven’t been watching you, but I have been 
watehing for an opportunity of telling you that Stopper is 
keeping far too sharp a look-out on you to mean you any good 
by it. I beg your pardon. Miss Boxall,” ho resumed, taking 
off his hat. “I fear I have been rude ; but, as I say, I was 
anxious to tell Mr. Worboise to be cautious. I don’t see why 
a fellow should get into a scrape for want of a hint.” 


On the River. 


119 


The manner with which Wither spoke to her made poor 
Lucy feel that there was not merely something unfitting, but 
something even disreputable, in the way her relation to Thomas 
was kept up. She grew as pale as death, rose, and turned to 
the side of the vessel, and drew her veil nervously over her face. 

It’s no business of mine, of course, Tom. But what I tell 
you is true. Though if you take my advice,” said Wither, 
and here he dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘‘this connection 
is quite as fit a one to cut as the last ; and the sooner you do 
it the better, for it’ll make a devil of a row with old Boxall. 
You ought to think of the girl, you know. Your own gov- 
ernor’s your own lookout. There’s none of it any business of 
mine, you know.” 

He turned with a nod and went aft ; for the steamer was 
just drawing in to the Hungerford pier, where he had to go 
ashore. 

For a few minutes not a word passed between Thomas and 
Lucy. A sudden cloud had fallen upon them. They must 
not go on this way, but what other way were they to take ? 
They stood side by side, looking into the water, Thomas hu- 
miliated and Lucy disgraced. Thefe was no comfort to be got 
out of that rushing blackness, and the mud banks grew wider 
and wider. 

Lucy was the first to speak, for she was far more capable 
than Tom. 

“We must go ashore at the next pier,” she said. 

“ Very well,” said Tom, as if he had been stunned into sul- 
lenness. “If you want to get rid of me because of what that 
fellow said — ” 

“ Oh, Tom ! ” said Lucy, and burst out crying. 

“ Well, vv^hat do you want, Lucy ?” 

“We must part, Tom,” sobbed Lucy. 

“Nonsense ! ” said Tom, nearly crying himself, for a great, 
painful lump had risen in his throat. 

“We can love each other all the same,” said Lucy, still sob- 
bing ; “ only you must not come to see me any more — that is 
— I do not mean — never any more at all — but till you have 
told them— all about it. I don’t mean now, but some time, 
you know. When will you be of age, Tom ?” 

“ Oh, that makes no difference. As long’s I’m dependent, 
it’s all the same. I wish I was my own master. I should soon 
let them see I didn’t care what they said.” 

Silence again followed, during which Lucy tried in vain to 
stop her tears by wiping them away. A wretched feeling 


120 


Guild Court 


awoke in her that Thomas was not manly, could not resolve— 
or rather, could not help her when she would do the right 
thing. She would have borne anything rather than that. It 
put her heart in a vise. 

The boat stopped at the ‘Westminster pier. They went on 
shore. The sun was down, and the fresh breeze that blew, 
while it pleasantly cooled the hot faces that moved westward 
from their day’s work, made Lucy almost shiver with cold. 
For loss had laid hold of her heart. They walked up Parlia- 
ment Street. Thomas felt that he must say something, but 
what he should say he could not think. He always thought 
what he should say — never what he should do. 

‘^Lucy, dear,” he said at last, ‘^we won’t make up our 
minds to-night. Wait till I see you next. I shall have time 
to think about it before then. I will be a match for that 
sneaking rascal, Stopper, yet.” 

Lucy felt inclined to say that to sneak was no way to give 
sneaking its own. But she said neither that nor anything 
else. 

They got into an omnibus at Charing Cross, and returned — 
deafened, stupefied, and despondent— into the city. They 
parted at Lucy’s door, and Thomas went home, already much 
later than usual. 

What should he do ? He resolved upon nothing, and did 
the worst thing he could have done. He lied. 

‘'You are very late to-night, Thomas,” said his mother. 
“ Have you been all this time with Mr. Moloch ? ” 

“Yes, mother,” answered Thomas. 

And when he was in bed he comforted himself by saying 
there was no such person as Mr. Moloch. 

When Lucy went to bed, she prayed to God in sobs and cries 
of pain. Hitherto she had believed in Thomas without a ques- 
tion crossing the disk of her faith ; but now she had begun to 
doubt, and the very fact that she could doubt was enough to 
make her miserable, even if there had been no ground for the 
doubt. My readers must remember that no one had attempted 
to let her into the secrets of his character as I have done with 
them. His beautiful face, pleasant manners, self-confidence, 
and, above all, her love, had blinded her to his faults. For, 
although I do not in the least believe that Love is blind, yet I 
niust confess that, like kittens and some other animals, he has 
his blindness nine days or niore, as it may be, from his birth. 
But once she had begun to suspect, she found ground for sus- 
picion enough. She had never knovm grief before — net even 


On the River, 121 

when her mother died — for death has not anything despicable, 
and Thomas had. 

AVhat Charles Wither had told Thomas was true enough. 
Mr. Stopper was after him. Ever since that dinner-party at 
Mr. BoxalFs he had hated him, and bided his time. 

Mr. Stopper was a man of forty, in whose pine-apple whisk- 
ers and bristly hair the first white streaks of autumn had 
begun to show themselves. He had entered the service of 
Messrs. Blunt & Baker some five-and-twenty years before, and 
had gradually risen through all the intervening positions to 
his present post. Within the last year, moved by prudential 
considerations, ho had begun to regard the daughters of his 
principal against the background of possible marriage ; and as 
he had hitherto, from motives of the same class, resisted all 
inclinations in that direction, with so much the more force 
did his nature rush into the channel which the consent of his 
selfishness opened for the indulgence of his affections. For 
the moment he saw Mary Boxall with this object in view, he 
fell in love with her after the fashion of such a man, beginning 
instantly to build, not castles, but square houses in the air, in 
the dining-rooms especially of which her form appeared in 
gorgeous and somewhat matronly garments amid ponderous 
mahogany, seated behind the obscuration of tropical plants at 
a table set out a la Russe, His indignation, when he entered 
the drawing-room after Mr. Boxall’s dinner, and saw Thomas 
in the act of committing the indiscretion recorded in that part 
of my story, passed into silent hatred when he found that 
while his attentions were slighted, those of Thomas, in his eyes 
a mere upstart — for he judged everything in relation to the 
horizon of Messrs. Blunt & Baker, and every man in relation 
to himself, seated upon the loftiest summit within the circle 
of that horizon — not even offered, but only dropped at her feet 
in passing, were yet accepted. 

Among men Mr. Stopper was of the bull-dog breed, saga- 
cious, keen-scented, vulgar, and inexorable ; capable of much 
within the range of things illuminated by his own interests, 
capable of nothing beyond it. And now one of his main ob- 
jects was to catch some scent — ^for the bull-dog has an excel- 
lent nose — of Thomas’s faults or failings, and follow such up 
the wind of his prosperity, till he should have a chance of 
pulling him down at last. His first inclination toward this 
revenge was strengthened and elevated into an imagined execu- 
tion of justice v/hen Mary fell ill, and it oozed out that her 
illness had not a little to do v/ith some behavior of Thomas’s. 


122 


Guild Court. 


Hence it came that, both consciously and unconsciously, Mr. 
Stopper was watching the unfortunate youth, though so cau- 
tious was Thomas that he had not yet discovered anything of 
which he could make a definite use. Nor did he want to 
interrupt Thomas’s projects before he found that they put him 
in his power. 

So here was a weak and conceited youth of fine faculties and 
fine impulses, between the malign aspects of two opposite stars — 
watched, that is, and speculated upon by two able and unprin- 
cipled men ; the one, Mr. Molken, searching him and ingrati- 
ating himself with him, ^^to the end to know how to worke 
him, or winde him, or governe him,” which. Lord Bacon goes 
on to say, ^^proceedeth from a heart that is double and cloven, 
and not entyre and ingenuous ; ” the other, Mr. Stopper, 
watching his conduct, not for the sake of procuring advantage 
to himself, but injury to Thomas. The one sought to lead 
him astray, that he might rob him in the dark ; the other 
sought a chance of knocking him down, that he might leave 
him lying in the ditch, ^d they soon began to play into 
each other’s hands. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

CAPTAIK BOXALL’S PROPOSAL. 

About three weeks before the occurrences last recorded, the 
following conversation took place between Richard and John 
Boxall over their wine : 

I tell you what, brother,” said the captain, you’re addling 
good brains with overwork. You won’t make haK so much 
money if you’re too greedy after it. You don’t look the same 
fellow you used to.” 

^^I hope I’m not too greedy after money, John. But it’s 
my business, as your’s is to sail your ship.” 

Yes, yes. I can’t sail my ship too well, nor you attend to 
your business too well. But if I was to sail two ships instead 
of one, or if I was to be on deck instead of down at my dinner 
when she was going before the wind in the middle of the 
Atlantic, I shouldn’t do my best when it came on to blow hard 
in the night.” 


Captain BoxatTs Proposal. 123 

That’s all veiy true. But I don’t think it applies to me. 
I never miss my dinner, by any chance.” 

Don’t you turn your blind ej-e on my signal, Dick. You 
know what I mean well enough. I’ve got a proposal to make — 
the j oiliest thing in the world.” 

Go on. I’m listening.” 

Mary ain’t quite so well again— is she now ?” 

Well, I don’t think she’s been getting on so fast. I suj)- 
pose it’s the spring weather.” 

Why, you may call it summer now. But she ain’t as I 
should like to see her, the darling.” 

‘^Well, no. I must confess I’m sometimes rather uneasy 
about her.” 

And there’s Jane. She don’t look at home, somehow.” 

For some time Eichard had been growing more and more 
uneasy as the evidence of his daughter’s attachment to Charles 
Wither became plainer. Both he and his wife did the best 
they could to prevent their meeting, but having learned a lit- 
tle wisdom from the history of his father’s family, and know- 
ing well the hastiness of his own temper, he had as yet man- 
aged to avoid any open conflict with his daughter, who he 
knew had inherited his own stubbornness. He had told his 
brother nothing of this second and now principal source of 
family apprehension ; and the fact that John saw that all was 
not right with Jane, greatly increased his feeling of how much 
things were going wrong. He made no reply, however, but 
sat waiting what was to follow. Accumulating his arguments 
the captain went on. 

And there’s your wife ; she’s had a headache almost eveiy 
day since I came to the house.” 

‘^Well, what are you driving at, John ?” said his brother, 
with the more impatience that he knew all John said was true. 

What I’m driving at is this,” answered the captain, 
hringing-io suddenly. You must all make this next voyage 
in my clipper. It’ll do you all a world o’ good, and me too.” 

Nonsense, John,” said Eichard, feeling however that a 
faint light dawned through the proposal. 

Don’t call it nonsense till you’ve slept upon it, Dick. The 
ship’s part mine, and I can make it easy for you. You’ll have 
to pay a little passage-money, just to keep me right with the 
rest of the owners ; but that won’t be much, and you’re no 
screw, though I did say you were too gveedy after the money. 
I believe it’s not the money so much as the making of it that 
fills your head.” 


124 


Guild Court 


Still, yon wouldn’t liaye me let the business go to the 
dogs?” 

‘^hTo fear of that, with Stopper at the head of affairs. I’ll 
tell you what you must do. You must take him in.” 

^^Into partnership, do you mean ?” said Kichard, his tone 
expressing no surprise, for ho had thought of tliis before. 

“ Yes, I do. You’ll haye to do it some day, and the sooner 
the better. If you don’t, you’ll lose him, and that you’ll find 
won’t be a mere loss. That man’ll make a dangerous enemy. 
Where he bites he’ll hold. And now’s a good time to serye 
yourself and him too.” 

Perhaps you’re right, brother,” answered the merchant, 
emptying his glass of claret and filling it again instantly, an 
action indicating a certain perturbed hesitation not in the 
least common to him. I’ll turn it oyer in my mind. I cer- 
tainly should not be sorry to haye a short holiday. I hayen’t 
had one to speak of for nearly twenty years, I do belieye.” 

John judged it better not to press him. He belieyed from 
what he knew of himself and his brother too that good adyice 
was best let alone to work its own effects. He turned the con- 
yersation to something indifferent. 

But after this many talks followed. Mrs. Boxall, of course, 
was consulted. Although she shrunk from the thought of a 
sea yoyage, she yet saw in the proposal a way out of many dif- 
ficulties, especially as giying room for time to work one of his 
especial works — that of effacement. So between the three the 
whole was arranged before either of the young people was 
spoken to on the subject. Jane heard it with a rash of blood 
to her heart that left her dark face almost liyid. Mary re- 
ceiyed the news gladly, eyen merrily, though a slight paleness 
followed and just indicated that she regarded the journey as 
the symbol and sign of seyered bonds. J ulia, a plump child of 
six, upon whose condition no argument for the yoyage could 
be founded, danced with joy at the idea of going in Uncle 
John’s ship. J^.Ir. Stopper threw no difficulty in the way of 
accepting a partnership in the concern, and thus matters were 
arranged. 

John Boxall had repeatedly yisited his mother during the 
six weeks he spent at his brother’s house. He seldom saw 
Lucy, howeyer, because of her engagement at the Morgen- 
sterns’, until her grandmother’s sickness kept her more at 
home. Then, whether it was that Lucy expected her uncle 
to be prejudiced against her, or that he really was so preju- 
diced, I do not know, but the two did not take much to each 


125 


The Tempter. 

other. Lucy considered her uncle a common and rough-looking 
sailor ; John Boxall called his niece a fine lady. And so they 
parted. 

On the same day on which Thomas and Lucy had their bloio 
on the riyer, the Ningi^o had cleared out of St. Katharine’s 
Dock, and was l3dng in the Upper Pool, all but ready to drop 
down with the next tide to Grayesend, where she was to take 
her passengers on board. 


CHAPTEE XYIII. 

THE TEMPTER. 

The next day, Thomas had made up his mind not to go 
near Guild Court ; but in the afternoon Mr. Stopper himself 
sent him to bring an old ledger from the fioor aboye Mrs. 
Boxall’s. As he got down from his perch, and proceeded to get 
his hat — 

‘^There’s no use in going round such a way,” said Mr. Stop- 
per. Mr. Boxall’s not in ; you can go through his room. 
Here’s the key of the door. Only mind you lock it when j^ou 
come back.” 

The key used to lie in Mr. Boxall’s drawer, but now Mr. 
Stoper took it from his own. Thomas was not altogether 
pleased at the change of approach, though why, he would 
hardly haye been able to tell. Probably he felt something as 
a miser would feel, into whose treasure-caye the new gallery of 
a neighboring mine threatened to break. He was, as it were, 
exposed upon the fiank. Annoyance instantly clouded the 
expression of eagerness which he had not been able to conceal ; 
and neither the light nor the following cloud escaped Mr. 
Stopper, who, although the region of other men’s thoughts 
was" dark as pitch to him in the usual relation he bore to 
them, yet the moment his interests or — rare case — his feelings 
brought him into the contact of opposition with any man, all 
the man’s pregnable points lay bare before him. 

Thomas had nothing to do but take the key and go. He 
had now no opportunity of spending more than one moment 
with Lucy. When the distance was of some length, he could 
cut both ways, and pocket the time gained ; now there was 


126 


Guild Court 


nothing to save upon. Neyertheless, he sped up the stairs as 
if he would overtake old Time himself. 

Rendered prudent, or cunning, by his affections, he secured 
the ordered chaos of vellum before he knocked at Mrs. BoxalFs 
door, which he then opened without waiting for the response 
to his appeal. 

^ I^^he said; have but one half minute. 



Luey appeared with the rim of a rainy sunset about her eyes. 
The rest of her faee was still as a day that belonged to not one 
of the four seasons — that had nothing to do. 

^^If you have forgotten yesterday, Thomas, I have not,” 
she said. 

‘‘ Oh ! never mind yesterday,” he said. I’m coming in 
to-night ; and I can stay as long as I please. My father and 
mother are gone to Folkestone, and there’s nobody to know 
when I go home. Isn’t it jolly ?” 

And without waiting for an answer, he scudded like Poppie. 
But what in Poppie might be graceful, was not dignified in 
Thomas ; and I fear Lucy felt this, when he turned the corner 
to the stair-case with the huge ledger under his arm, and his 
coat flying out behind him. But she would nob have felt it 
had she not had on the preceding evening, for the first time, 
a peep into his character. 

As he reentered the counting-house he was aware of the 
keen glance cast at him by Stopper, and felt that he reddened. 
But he laid the ledger on the desk before him, and perched 
again with as much indifference as he could assume. 

Wearily the hours passed. How could they otherwise pass 
with figures, figures everywhere. Stopper right before him at 
the double desk, and Lucy one story removed and inaccessible ? 
Some men would v^rork all the better for knowing their treasure 
so near, but Thomas had not yet reached such a repose. In- 
deed, he did not yet love Lucy well enough for that. People 
talk about loving too much ; for my part, I think all the mis- 
chief comes of loving too little. 

The dinner-hour at length arrived. Thomas, however, was 
not in the way of attempting to see Lucy at that time. He 
would have said that there was too much coming and going of 
the clerks about that hour : I venture to imagine that a quiet 
enjoyment of his dinner had something to do with it. How, 
although I can well enough understand a young fellow in love 
being as hungry as a liawk, I cannot quite understand his 
spending an hour over his dinner when the quarter of it would 


127 


The Tempter, 

bo enough, and the rest might give him if hut one chance of 
one peep at the lady. On the present occasion, however, see- 
ing he had the whole evening in prospeet, Thomas may have 
been quite right to devote himself to his dinner, the news- 
paper, and anticipation. At all events, he betook himself to 
one of the courts oft' Cornhill, and ascended to one of those 
eating-houses which abound in London city, where a man may 
generally dine well, and always at moderate expense. 

Now this was one of the days on which Thomas usually vis- 
ited Mr. Molken. But as he had missed two lessons, the 
spider had become a little anxious about his fly, and knowing 
that Thomas went to dine at this hour, and knowing also 
where he went, he was. there before him, and on the outlook 
for his entrance. This was not the sort of place the German 
generally frequented. He was more likely to go prowling 
about Thames Street for his dinner ; but when Thomas en- 
tered, there he was, signaling to him to take his place beside him. 

Thomas did not see that in the dark corner of an opposite 
box sat Mr. Stopper. He obeyed the signal, and a steak was 
presently broiling for him upon the gridiron at the other end 
of the room. 

You vas not come fore your lesson de letst time, Mistare 
Verbose,” said Molken. 

No,” answered Thomas, who had not yet made a confidant 
of Mr. Molken. was otherwise engaged.” 

He spoke quite carelessly. 

‘‘ Ah ! yes. Oddervise,” said Molken, and said no more. 

Presently he broke into a suppressed laugh, which caused 
Thomas, who was very sensitive as to his personal dignity, to 
choke over his tankard of bitter ale, with which he was con- 
soling himself for the delay of his steak. 

^MVhat is it you find so amusing, Mr. Molken ?” he asked. 

I beg your pardon,” returned Molken. It was very rude ; 
but I could not help it. I will tell you one story I did see last 
night. I am a man of de vorld, as you know, &. Verbose.” 

My reader must excuse me if I do not keep to the repre- 
sentation of the fellow’s German-English. It is hardly worth 
doing, and I am doubtful, besides, whether I can do it well. 

"^I am a man of the world,” said Molken, ''and I was last 
night in one of those shops, what you call them — paradise ; 
no, the other thing— hell— where they have the spinning 
thing— the Koulette— and the Eouge et Noir, and ccetera. I 
do not mean to say that I was gambling. Oh, no * I was at 
the bar having a glass of Judenlip, when lo ! and behold/ 


128 


Guild Court 


down through the green door, with fi burst, comes a young 
man I knew. He was like yourself, Mr. Worboise, a clerk in 
a counting-house.” 

Thomas winced, but said nothing. He regarded his busi- 
ness as he ought to have regarded himself, namely, as some- 
thing to be ashamed of. 

Well, he comes up to me, and he says, ^Herr Molken, we 
are old friends ; will you lend me a sovereign ‘ Ho,’ I said, 
‘Mr. — ,’ — I forget the young man’s name, but I did know 
him — ‘ I never lend money for gambling purposes. Get the 
man who won your last sovereign to lend you another. For 
my own part, I’ve had enough of that sort of thing.’ For you 
see, Mr. Thomas, I have gambled in my time — yes, and made 
money by it, though I spent it as foolishly as I got it. You 
don’t think I would spend my time in teaching IcU hahe, Du 
hast, if I hadn’t given up gambling. But university men, 
you know, learn bad habits.” 

“ What did he say to that ? ” asked Thomas. 

“He swore and turned away as if he was choking. But the 
fact was, Mr. Verbose, I hadn’t a sovereign in my possession. 
I wasn’t going to tell him that. But if I had had one, he 
should have had it ; for I can’t forget the glorious excitement 
it used to be to see the gold lying like a yellow mole-hill on the 
table, and to think that one fortunate turn might send it all 
into your own pockets.” 

“ But he didn’t choke, did he ?” said Thomas, weakly try- 
ing to be clever. 

“ Ho. And I will tell you how it was that he didn’t. ‘ By 
Jove !’ he cried. Hov/ l"had seen him fumbling about his 
waistcoat as if he would tear his heart cut, and all at once dive 
his two forefingers into a little pocket that was meant to hold 
a watch, only the watch had gone up the spout long ago. ‘ By 
Jove ! ’ he said — that’s the right swear, isn’t it, Mr. Verbose ? 
— and then he rushed through the green door again. I followed 
him, for I wanted to see what he was after. In half an hour 
he had broken the bank. He had found a sovereign in that 
little pocket. How it got there the devil only knew. He 
swept his money into his pockets and turned to go. I saw 
the people of the house getting between him and the door, 
and I saw one of the fellows — I knew him — who had lost 
money all the evening, going to pick a quarrel vrith him. For 
those gamblers have no honor in them. So I opened the door 
as if to leave the room, and pretending to hesitate as if I had 
left something, kept it open, and made a sign to him to bolt, 


129 


The Tempter, 

which he understood at once, and was down-stairs in a mo- 
ment, and I after him. Now let me tell you a secret,” con- 
tinued Molken, leaning across the table, and speaking very 
low and impressively — that young man confessed to me that 
same evening, that when I refused him the sovereign, he had 
just lost the last of two hundred pounds of his master’s 
money. To-day I hope he has replaced it honestly, as he 
ought ; for his winnings that night came to more than seven 
hundred.” 

But he was a thief,” said Thomas, bluntly. 

^MVell, so he was ; but no more a thief than many a re- 
spectable man who secures his own and goes on risking other 
people’s money. It’s the way of the world. However, as I 
told you, I gave it up long ago. There was a time in my life 
when I used to live by it.” 

How did you manage that ? ” 

There are certain rules to be observed, that’s all. Only 
you must stick to them. For one thing, 3"ou must make up 
your mind never to lose more than a certain fixed sum any 
night you play. If you stick to that, you will find your win- 
nings alwa^^s in excess of your losses.” 

How can that be ? ” 

Oh, I don’t pretend to account for it. Gaming has its 
laws as well as the universe generally. Everything goes by 
laws, you know — laws that cannot be found out except by ex- 
periment ; and that, as I say, is one of the laws of gambling.” 

All this time Mr. Stopper had been reading Mr. Molken’s 
face Suddenly Tom caught sight of his superior ; the warn- 
ing of Wither rushed back on his mind, and he grew pale as 
death. Molken perceiving the change, sought for its cause, 
but saw nothing save a stony gentleman in the opposite box 
sipping sherry, and picking the ripest pieces out of a Stilton. 

Don’t look that way, Molken,” said Tom, in an under- 
tone. That’s our Mr. Stopper.” 

Well, haven’t we as good a right to be here as Mr. Stop- 
per ? ” returned Molken, in a voice equally inaudible beyond 
the table, but taking piercing eyeshots at the cause of Tom’s 
discomposure. 

The two men very soon had something like each other’s 
measure. They could each understand his neighbor’s ras- 
cality, while his own seemed to each only a law of nature. 

You generally pay, don’t jmu ? ” added Molken. 

Tom laughed. 

‘^Yes, I do generally, and a penny to the cook besides, 


130 


Guild Court, 


which, I will be bound, he does not. But that’s nothing to 
the point. He hates me, though why, I’m sure I don’t — I 
can only guess.” 

^^Some girl, I suppose,” said Molken, coolly. 

Thomas felt too much flattered to endeavor even to dilute 
the insinuation ; and Molken went on : 

Well, but how can the fellow bear malice ? Of course, he 
must have seen from the first that he had no chance with you. 
I’ll tell you what, Worboise ; I have had a good deal of expe- 
rience, and it is my conviction, from what I have seen of you, 
that you are one of the lucky ones — one of the elect, you 
know — born to it, and can’t help yourself.” 

Tom pulled out his watch. 

Half an hour to spare yet,” he said. Come up to the 
smoking-room.” 

Having ordered a bottle of Ehine wine, Tom turned to 
Molken, and said : 

What did you mean by saying that I was one of the lucky 
ones ? ” 

Oh, don’t you know there are some men born under a 
lucky star — as they would have said in old times ? What the 
cause is, of course I don’t know, except it be that Heaven 
must have some favorites, if only for the sake of variety. At 
all events, there is no denying that some men are born to luck. 
They are lucky in everything they put their hands to. Did. 
you ever try your luck in a lottery, now ? ” 

I did in a raffle, once.” 

^^Well?” 

‘‘1 won a picture.” 

told you so I And it would be just the same whatever 
you tried. You are cut out for it. You have the luck-mark 
on you. I was sure of it.” 

‘^How can you tell that ? ” asked Tom, lingering like a fly 
over the sweet poison, and ready to swallow almost any ab- 
surditv that represented him as something different from the 
run of ordinary mortals, of whom he was, as yet at least, a 
very ordinary specimen. 

Never you mind how I can tell. But I will tell you this 
much, that I have experience ; and your own Bacon says that 
the laws of everything are to be found out by observation and 
experiment. I have observed, and I have experimented, and 
I tell you you are a lucky one.” 

Tom stroked the faintest neutrality of a coming mustache, 
ponderingly and pleasedly, and said nothing. 


The Tempter, 131 

the by, are you coming to me to-night?” asked 

Molken. 

‘‘ No — 0 ,” answered Tom, still stroking his upper lip with 
the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, think not. I 
believe I have an engagement to-night, somewhere or other.” 

He took out his pocket-book, and pretended to look. 

Yes. I can’t have my lesson to-night.” 

Then I needn’t stop at home for you. By the way, have 
vou a sovereign about you ? I wouldn’t trouble you, you 
know, only, as I told you, I haven’t got one. I believe your 
quarter is out to-night. ” 

‘‘ Oh, I beg your pardon ; I ought to have thought of that. 
I have two half-sovereigns in my pocket, and no more, I am 
sorry to say. Will one of them do for to-night ? You shall 
have more to-morrow.” 

Oh, thank you ; it’s of no consequence. Well, I don’t 
know — I think I will take the ten shillings, for I want to go 
out this evening. Yes. Thank you. Never mind to-morrow, 
except it be convenient.” 

Tom settled the bill, and put the change of the other half- 
sovereign in his pocket. Molken left him at the door of the 
tavern, and he went back to the counting-house. 

^^Who was that with you at the Golden Eleece, Tom ?” 
asked Mr. Stopper, as he entered ; for he took advantage of 
his position to be as rude as he found convenient. 

Taken by surprise, Tom answered at once ; 

‘^Mr. Molken.” 

And who is he ? ” asked Stopper, again. 

My German master,” answered Tom. 

The next moment he could have knocked his head against 
the wall with indignation at himself. For, always behindhand 
when left to himself, he was ready enough when played upon 
by another to respond and repent. 

He’s got a hangdog phiz of his own,” said Mr. Stopper, as 
he plunged again into the business before him, writing away as 
deliberately as if it had been on parchment instead of fools- 
cap ; for Stopper was never in a hurry, and never behind. 

Tom’s face flushed red with wrath. 

“ I’ll thank you to be civil in your remarks on my friends, 
Mr. Stopper.” 

Mr. Stopper answered with a small puff of windy breath 
from distended lips. He blew, in short. Tom felt his eyes 
waver. He gTew almost blind with rage. If he had followed 
his inclination, ho would have brought the ruler beside him 


132 


Guild Court 


down, with a terrible crack, on the head before him. Why 
didn’t he ?” does my reader inquire? Just because of his in- 
capacity for action of any sort. He did not refrain in the pity 
that disarms some men in the midst of their wrath, nor yet 
from the sense that vengeance is God’s business, and will be 
carried out in a mode rather different from that in which man 
would prosecute his. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

HOW TOM SPENT THE EVENING. 

When Tom left the office he walked into Mr. Kitely’s shop, 
for he was afraid lest Mr. Stopper should see him turn up to 
Guild Court. He had almost forgotten Mr. Kitely’s behavior 
about the book he would not keep for him, and his resent- 
ment was gone quite. There was nobody in the shop but 
Mattie. 

‘^Well, chick,” said Thomas, kindly, but more condescend- 
ingly than suited Miss Matilda’s tastes. 

‘‘Neither chick nor child,” she answered promptly ; though 
where she got the phrase is a mystery, as indeed is the case 
with almost all the sayings of such children. 

“ What are you, then ? A fairy ?” 

“ If I was, I know what I would do. Oli, wouldn’t I just ! 
I should think I would ! ” 

“Well, what would you do, little Miss What’s-your-name ?” 

“ My name is Miss Kitely ; but that’s neither here nor 
there. Oh, no ! it’s not me ! Wouldn’t I just ! ” 

“Well, Miss Kitely, I want to know what you would do if 
you were a fairy ? ” 

“ I would turn your eyes into gooseberries, and your tongue 
into a bit of leather a foot long ; and every time you tried to 
speak your long tongue would slap your blind eyes and make 
you cry.” 

“ What a terrible doom ! ” returned Thomas, offended at 
the child’s dislike to him, but willing to carry it off. 
“Why?” 

“ Because you’ve made Miss Burton’s eyes red, you naughty 
man ! I know you. It must be you. Nobody else could 
make her eyes red but you, and you go and do it.” 


133 


Hoio Tom Spent tM Evening. 

Thomas’s first movement was of anger ; for he felt, as all 
who have concealments are ready to feel, that he was being un- 
comfortably exposed. He turned his back on the child, and 
proceeded to examine the books on a level with his face. While 
he was thus engaged, Mr. Kitelj entered. 

How do you do, Mr. Worboise ? ” he said. ^^Fve got an- 
other copy of that book you and I fell out about some time ago. 
I can let you have this one at half the price.” 

It was evident that the bookseller wanted to be conciliatory. 
Thomas, in his present mood was inclined to rejoel his ad- 
vances, but he shrank from contention, and said : 

Thank you. I shall be glad to have it. How much is 
it?” 

Mr. Kitely named the amount, and, ashamed to appear 
again unable, even at the reduced price, to pa;^ for it, Thomas 
pulled out the last farthing of the money in his pocket, which 
came to the exact sum required, and pocketed the volume. 

‘^If you would excuse a man who has seen something of the 
world — more than was good for him at one time of his life — 
Mr. Worboise,” said Mr. Kitely, as he pocketed the money, 
“I would give you a hint about that German up the court. 
He’s a clever fellow enough, I dare say — perhaps too clever. 
Don’t you have anything to do with him beyond the German. 
Take my advice. I don’t sit here all day at the mouth of the 
court for nothing. I can see what comes in my way as well as 
another man.” 

What is there to say against him, Mr. Kitely ? I haven’t 
seen any harm in him.” 

I’m not going to commit nwself in warning you, Mr. 
Worboise. But I do v/arn you. Look out, and don’t let him 
lead you into mischief.” 

‘‘I hope I am able to take care of myself, Mr. Kitely,” said 
Thomas, with a touch of offense. 

I hope you arc, Mr. Worboise,” returned the bookseller, 
dryly ; but there’s no offense meant in giving you the 
hint.” 

At this moment Mr. Stopper passed the window. Thomas 
listened for the echo of his steps up the archway, and as none 
came, he knew that he had gone along the street. He waited, 
therefore, till he thought he must be out of sight, and then 
sped uneasily from the shop, round the corner, and up to Mrs. 
Boxall’s door, which the old lady herself opened for him, not 
looking so pleased as usual to see him. Mr. Molken was v/atch- 
ing from the opposite ground-floor window. A few minutes 


134 


Guild Court 


after, Mr. Stopper repassed the window of Mr. Kitely’s shop, 
and went into the counting-house with a pass-key. 

Thomas left Mrs. Boxall to shut the door, and rushed 
eagerly up the stairs, and into the sitting-room. There he 
found the red eyes of which Mattie had spoken. Lucy rose 
and held out her hand, but her manner was constrained, and 
her lips trembled as if she were going to cry. Thomas would 
have put his arm round her and drawn her to him, but she 
gently pushed his arm away, and he felt as many a man has 
felt, and every man, perhaps, ought to feel, that in the gent- 
lest repulse of the woman he loves there is something terribly 
imperative and absolute. 

Why, Lucy he said, in a tone of hurt ; what have I 
done?” 

If you can forget so soon, Thomas,” answered Lucy, I 
cannot. Since yesterday I see things in a different light alto- 
gether. I cannot, for your sake any more than my own, allow 
things to go on in this doubtful way.” 

“Oh ! but, Lucy, I was taken unawares yesterday; and to- 
day, now I have slept upon it, I don’t see there is any such 
danger. I ought to be a match for that brute Stopper, any- 
how.” 

Yet the brute Stopper had outreached him, or, at least, 

served him out,” three or four times that verv day, and he 
had refused to acknowledge it to himself, which was all his 
defense, poor wretch. 

“But that is not all the question, Thomas. It is not right. 
At least, it seems to me that it is not right to go on like this. 
People’s friends ought to know. I would not have done it if 
grannie hadn’t been to know. But then I ought to have 
thought of your friends as well as my own.” 

“ But there would be no difficulty if I had only a grand- 
mother,” urged Thomas, “and one as good as yours. I 
shouldn’t have thought of not telling.” 

“I don’t think the difficulty of doing right makes it unnec- 
essary to do it,” said Lucy. 

“I think you might trust that to me, Lucy,” said Thomas, 
falling back upon his old attempted relation of religious in- 
structor to his friend. 

Lucy was silent for a moment ; but after what she had gone 
through in the night, she knew that the time had come for 
altering their relative position if not the relation itself. 

“No, Thomas,” said she ; “I must take my own duty into 
my own hands. I will not go on this way.” 


How Tom Spent the Evening. 135 

you think then, Lucy, that in affairs of this kind a 
fellow oug-ht to do Jusfc what his parents want ? ’’ 

^‘No, Thomas. But I do think he ought not to keep such 
things secret from them.” 

‘‘Not even if they are unreasonable and tyrannical ? ” 

“No. A man who will not take the consequences of loving 
cannot be much of a lover.” 

“Lucy !” cried Thomas, now stung to the heart. 

“ I can’t help it, Thomas,” said Lucy, bursting into tears ; 
“ I must speak the truth, and if you cannot hear it, the worse 
for me — and for you, too, Thomas.” 

“Then you mean to give me up?” said Thomas, patheti- 
cally, without, however, any real fear of such an unthinkable 
catastrophe. 

“If it be giving you up to say I will not marry a man who 
is too much afraid of his father and mother to let them know 
what he is about, then I do give you up. But it will be you 
who give me up if you refuse to acknowledge me as you 
ought.” 

Lucy could not have talked like this ever before in her life. 
She had gone through an eternity of suffering in the night. 
She was a woman now. She had been but a girl before. Now 
she stood high above Thomas. He was but a boy still, and 
not beautiful as such. She was all at once old enough to be 
his mother. There was no escape from the course she took ; 
no dodging was possible. This must he. But she was and 
would be gentle with poor Thomas. 

“You do not love me, Lucy,” he cried. 

“ My poor Thomas, I do love you ; love you so dearly that I 
trust and pray you may be worthy of my love. Go and do as 
you ought, and come back to me — like one of the old knights 
you talk about,” she added, with the glimmer of a hopeful 
smile, “ bringing victory to his lady.” 

“I will, I will,” said Thomas, overcome by her solemn 
beauty and dignified words. It was as if she had cast the 
husk of the girl, and had come out a saving angel. But the 
perception of this was little more to him yet than a poetic 
sense of painful pleasure. 

“ I will, I will,” he said. “ But I cannot to-night, for my 
father and mother are both at Folkestone. But I will write to 
them — that will be best.” 

“ Any way you like, Thomas. I don’t care how you do it, 
so it is done.” 

All this time the old lady, having seen that something was 


136 


OuiJd Court 


wrong, had discreetly kept out of the way, for she knew thaf 
the quarrels of lovers at least are most easily settled between 
themselves. Thomas now considered it all over and done 
with, and Lucy, overjoyed at her victory, leaned into his 
arms, and let him kiss her ten times. Such a man, she ought 
not, perhaps — only she did not know better — to have allowed 
to touch her till he had done what he had promised. To 
some people the promise is the difficult part, to others the 
performance. To Thomas, unhappily, the promising was 
easy. 

They did not hear the door open. It was now getting dark, 
but the two were full in the light of the window, and visible 
enough to the person who entered. He stood still for one 
moment, during which the lovers unwound their arms. Only 
when parting, they became aware that a man was in the room. 
He came forward with hasty step. It was Eichard Boxall. 
Thomas looked about for his hat. Lucy stood firm and quiet, 
waiting. 

Lucy, where is your grandmother ? ” 

‘‘ Up stairs, uncle, I believe.” 

Is she aware of that fellow’s presence ? ” 

You are not very polite, uncle,” said Lucy, with dignity. 

Tliis is my friend, Mr. Worboise, whom I believe you know. 
Of course I do not receive visitors without my grandmother’s 
knowledge.” 

Mr. Boxall choked an oath in his throat, or rather the oath 
nearly choked him. He turned and went down the stair 
again ; but neither of them heard the outer door close. 
TTiomas and Lucy stared at each other in dismay. 

The facts of the case were these, as near as I can guess. 
The Ningpo had dropped down to Gravesend, and the Boxalls 
had joined her there. But some delay had arisen, and she 
was not to sail till the next morning. Mr. Boxall had re- 
solved to make use of the time thus gained or lost, and had 
come up to town. I cannot help believing that it was by con- 
trivance of Mr. Stopper, vffio had watched Tom and seen him 
go up the court, that he went through the door from his pri- 
vate room, instead of going round, which would have given 
warning to the lovers. Possibly he returned intending to see 
his mother ; but after the discovery he made, avoided her, 
partly because he was angry and v/ould not quarrel with her 
the last thing before his voyage. Upon maturer consideration, 
he must have seen that he had no ground for quarreling with 
her at all, for she could have known nothing about Tom in 


137 


Hoio Tom Spent the Evening, 

relation to Mary, except Tom had told her, which was not at 
all likely. But before he had had time to see this, he was on 
his way to Gravesend again. He was so touchy as well as obsti- 
nate about everything wherein his family was concerned, that 
the sight of Tom with his Mary’s cousin was enough to drive 
all rejection out of him for an hour at least. 

Thomas and Lucy stood and stared at each other. Thomas 
stared from consternation ; Lucy only stared at Tom. 

‘‘ Well, Thomas,” she said at last, with a sweet, watery smile ; 
for she had her lover, and she had lost her idol. She had got 
behind the scenes, and could worship no more ; but Dagon 
was a line idea, notwithstanding his fall, and if she could not 
set him up on his pedestal again, she would at least try to give 
him an arm-chair. Fish-tailed Dagon is an unfortunate choice 
for the simile, I know, critical reader ; but let it pass, and the 
idea that it illustrates being by no means original, let the figure 
at least have some claim to the distinction. 

Now he’ll go and tell my father,” said Tom ; and I wish 
you knew what a row my mother and he will make between 
them.” 

But why, Tom ? Have they any prejudice against me ? 
Do they know there is such a person ? ” 

‘ ^ I don’t know. They may have heard of you at your uncle’s. ” 
‘‘ Then why should they be so very angry ? ” 

‘^My father because you have no money, and my mother 
because you have no grace.” 

“No grace, Tom ? Am I so very clumsy ?” 

Thomas burst out laughing. 

“I forgot,” he said. “You were not brought up to my 
mother’s slang. She and her set use Bible words till they 
make you hate them.” 

“ But you shouldn’t hate them. They are good in them- 
selves, though they be wrong used. ” 

“That’s all very well. Only if you had been tried with 
them as I have been, I am afraid you would have had to give 
in to hating them, as well as me, Lucy. ^ I never did like that 
kind of slang. But what am I to do with old Boxall — I beg 
your pardon — with your uncle Richard ? He’ll be sure to 
write to my father before he sails. They’re friends, you know.” 

“Well, but you will be beforehand with him, and then it 
won’t matter. You were going to do it at any rate, and the 
thing now is to have the start of him,’’ said Lucy, perhaps not 
sorry to have in the occurrence an additional spur to prick the 
sides of Thomas’s intent. 


138 


Guild Court 


Yes, yes ; that’s all very well,” returned Thomas, dubiously, 
as if there was a whole world behind it. 

‘‘Now, dear Tom, do go home at once, and write. You 
will save the last post if you do,” said Lucy, decidedly ; for 
she saw more and more the necessity, for Thomas’s own sake, 
of urging him to action. 

“ So, instead of giving me a happy evening, you are going 
to send me home to an empty house ! ” 

“You see the thing must be done, or my uncle will bo 
before you,” said Lucy, beginning to be vexed with him for 
his utter want of decision, and with herself for pushing him 
toward such an act. Indeed, she felt all at once that perhaps 
she had been unmaidenly. But there was no choice except 
to do it, or break off the engagement. 

Now, whether it was that her irritation influenced her tone 
and infected Tom with like irritation, or that he could not 
bear being thus driven to do what he so much disliked, while 
on the whole he would have preferred that Mr. Boxall should 
tell his father and so save him from the immediate difficulty, 
the evil spirit in him arose once more in rebellion, and, like 
the mule that he was, he made an effort to unseat tlie gentle 
power that would have urged him along the only safe path on 
the mountain-side. 

“Lucy, I will not be badgered in this way. If you can’t 
trust me, you won’t get anything that way.” 

Lucy drew back a step and looked at him for one moment ; 
then turned and left the room. Thomas waited for a min- 
ute ; then, choosing to arouse a great sense of injury in his 
bosom, took his hat, and went out, banging the door behind 
him. 

Just as he banged Lucy’s door, out came Mr. Molken from 
his. It was as if the devil had told a hawk to wait, and he 
would fetch him a pigeon. 

“ Coming to have your lesson after all ? ” he asked, as 
Thomas, from very indecision, made a step or two toward him. 

“No ; I don’t feel inclined for a lesson to-night.” 

“ Where are you going, then ? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Tom, trying to look nohow 
in particular. 

“ Come along with me, then. I’ll show you something? of 
life after dark.” 

“ But where are you going ? ” 

“ You’ll see that when we get there. You’re not afraid, are 
you ? ” 


How Tom Spent the Evening, 


139 


!N'ot I,” answered Tom ; only a fellow likes to know 
where he’s going. That’s all.” 

Well, where would you like to go ? A young fellow like 
you really ought to know something of the world he lives in. 
You are clever enough, in all conscience, if you only knew a 
little more.” 

Go on, then. I don’t care. It’s nothing to me where I 

f o. Only,” Tom added, have no money in my pocket, 
spent my last shilling on this copy of Goethe’s poems.” 

‘^Ah, you never spent your money better! There was a 
man, now, that never contented himself with hearsay 1 He 
would know all the ways of life for himself — else how was he 
to judge of them all ? He would taste of everything, that he 
might know the taste of it. Why should a man be ignorant 
of anything that can be known. Come along. I will take 
care of you. See if I don’t I ” 

But you can’t be going an 5 rwhere in London for nothing. 
And I tell you I haven’t got a farthing in my purse.” 

Never mind that. It shan’t cost you anything. Now I 
am going to make a clean breast of it, as you English call it ; 
though why there should be anything dirty in keeping your 
own secrets I don’t know. I want to make an experiment 
with you.” 

Give me chloroform, and cut me up ?” said Tom, reviving 
as his quarrel with Lucy withdrew a little into the back- 
ground. 

Not quite that. You shall neither take chloroform, nor 
have your eyes bandaged, nor be tied to the table. You can 
go the moment you have had enough of it. It is merely for the 
sake of my theory. Entirely an experiment.” 

Perhaps, if you told me your theory, I might judge of the 
nature of the experiment.” 

“ I told you all about it the other day. You are one of those 
fortunate mortals doomed to be lucky. Why, I knew one — 
not a gambler, I don’t mean that — whose friends at last would 
have nothing to do with him where any chance was concerned. 
If it was only sixpenny points, they wouldn’t play a single 
rubber of whist with him except he was their partner. In 
fact, the poor wretch was reduced to play only with strangers, 
— comparative strangers I mean, of course. He won every- 
thing.” 

Then what do you want with me ? Out with it.” 

^"I only want to back you. You don’t understand the 
thing. You shan’t spend a farthing. I have plenty.” Here 


140 


GuUd Court 


Molken pulled a few sovereigns from his pocket as he went on, 
and it never occurred to Tom to ask how he had them, seeing 
he was so hard-up at dinner-time. It’s all for my theory of 
luck, 1 assure you. I have given up practical gambling, as 1 
told you, long ago. It’s not right. I have known enough 
about it, I confess to you — you know we understand each 
other; but I confess too — my theory — I am anxious about 
that.” 

All this time they had been walking along, Thomas paying 
no heed to the way they went. He would have known little 
about it, however, well as he thought he knew London, for 
they had entered a region entirely unknown to him. 

But you haven’t told me, after all,” he said, where you 
are going.” 

Here,” answered Molken, pushing open the swing-door of 
a public-house. 

❖ ♦***** 

The next morning Thomas made his appearance in the 
oflSce at the usual hour, but his face was pale and his eyes 
were red. His shirt-front was tumbled and dirty, and he had 
nearly forty shillings in his pocket. He never looked up from 
his work, and now and then pressed his hand to his head. 
This Mr. Stopper saw and enjoyed. 


CHAPTEK XX. 

HOW LUCY SPENT THE NIGHT. 

When Lucy left the room, with her lover — if lover he 
could be called — alone in it, her throat felt as if it would burst 
with the swelling of something like bodily grief. She did not 
know what it was, for she had never felt anything like it be- 
fore. She thought she was going to die. Her grandmother 
could have told her that she would be a happy woman if she 
did not have such a swelling in her throat a good many times 
without dying of it ; but Lucy strove desperately to hide it 
from her. She went to her own room and threw herself on 
her bed, but started up again when she heard the door bang. 


141 


How Lucy Spent the Night, 

flew to the window, and saw all that passed between Molken 
and Thomas till they left the court together. She had never 
seen Molken so full in the face before ; and whether it was 
from this full view, or that his face wore more of the spider 
expression upon this occasion, I do not know — I incline to the 
latter, for I think that an on-looker can read the expression of 
two countenances better, sometimes, than those engaged in 
conversation can read each other’s — however it was, me felt a 
dreadful repugnance to Molken from that moment, and be- 
came certain that he was trying in some way or other to make 
his own out of Thomas. With this new distress was mingled 
the kind but mistaken self-reproach that she had driven "him 
to it. Why should she not have borne with the poor boy, who 
was worried to death between his father and mother and Mr. 
Stopper and that demon down there ? He would be all right 
if they would only leave him alone. He was but a poor boy, 
and, alas I she had driven him away from his only friend — for 
such she was sure she was. She threw herself on her bed, but 
she could not rest. All the things in the room seemed press- 
ing upon her, as if they had staring eyes in their heads ; and 
there was no heart anywhere. 

Her grandmother heard the door bang, and came in search 
of her. 

What’s the matter, my pet ? ” she asked, as she entered 
the room and found her lying on the bed. 

Oh, nothing, grannie,” answered Lucy, hardly knowing 
what she said. 

You’ve quarrelled with that shilly-shally beau of yours, I 
suppose. Well, let him go — he^s not much.” 

Lucy made no reply, but turned her face toward the wall, as 
mourners did ages before the birth of King Hezekiah. Gran- 
nie had learned a little wisdom in her long life, and left 
her. She would get a cup of tea ready, for she had great 
faith in bodily cures for mental aches. But before the tea 
was well in the tea-j)ot Lucy came down in her bonnet and 
shawl. 

She could not rest. She tossed and turned. What could 
Thomas be about with that man ? What mischief might he 
not take him into ? Good women, in their supposed ignorance 
of men’s wickedness, are not unfre(][uently like the angels, in 
that they understand it perfectly, without the knowledge soil- 
ing one feather of their wings. They see it clearly — even from 
afar. Now, although Lucy could not know so much of it as 
many are compelled to know, she had some acquaintance with 


142 


Guild Court, 


the lowest castes of humanity, and the vice of the highest is 
much the same as the vice of the lowest, only in general worse 
— more refined, and more detestable. So, by a natural process, 
without knowing how, she understood something of the kind 
of gulf into which a man like Molken might lead Thomas, and 
she could not bear the thoughts that sprung out of this under- 
standing. Hardly knowing what she did, she got up and put 
on her bonnet and shawl, and went down stairs. 

“ Where on earth are you going, Lucy ? ” asked her grand- 
mother, in some alarm. 

Lucy did not know in the least what she meant to do. She 
had had a vague notion of setting out to find Thomas some- 
where, and rescue him from the grasp of Moloch, but, save for 
the restlessness with which her misery filled her, she could 
never have entertained the fancy. The moment her grand- 
mother asked her the question, she saw how absurd it would 
be. Still she could not rest. So she invented an answer, and 
ordered her way according to her word. 

‘^I’m going to see little Mattie,” she said. ^^The child is 
lonely, and so am I. I will take her out for a walk.” 

^^Do then, my dear. It will do you both good,” said the 
grandmother. Only you must have a cup of tea first.” 

Lucy drank her cup of tea, then rose, and went to the book- 
shop. Mr. Kitely was there alone. 

How’s Mattie to-night, Mr. Kitely ? Is she any better, do 
you think ? ” she asked. 

She’s in the back room there. I’ll call her,” said the book- 
seller, without answering either of Lucy’s questions. 

Oh ! I’ll Just go in to her. You wouldn’t mind me taking 
her out for a little walk, would you ? ” 

Much obliged to you, miss,” returned the bookseller, 
heartily. ‘^It’s not much amusement the poor child has. 
I’m always meaning to do better for her, but I’m so tied 
with the shop that — I don’t know hardly how it is, but some- 
how we go on the same old way. She’ll be delighted.” 

Lucy went into the back parlor, and there sat Mattie, 
mth her legs curled up beneath her on the window-sill, read- 
ing a little book, thumbed and worn at the edges, and brown 
with dust and use. 

^^Well, Miss Burton,” she cried, before Lucy had time to 
speak, I’ve found something here. I think it’s what people 
call poetry. I’m not sure ; but I’m sure it’s good, whatever 
it is. Only I can’t read it very well. Will you read it to me, 
please, miss ? I do like to be read to.” 


How Lucy Spent the Night. 143 

want yon to come out for a walk with me, Mattie,” said 
Lucy, who was in no humor for reading. 

Wise Mattie glanced up in her face. She had recognized 
the sadness in her tone. 

Eead this first, please. Miss Burton,” she said. I think 
it will do you good. Things will go wrong. I’m sure it’s 
very sad. And I don’t know what’s to be done with the world. 
It’s always going wrong. It’s just like father’s watch. He’s 
always saying there’s something out of order in its inside, and 
he’s always a-taking of it to the doctor, as he calls the watch- 
maker to amuse me. Only I’m not very easy to amuse,” re- 
flected Mattie, with a sigh. But,” she resumed, I wish 
I knew the doctor to set the world right. The clock o’ St. 
Jacob’s goes all right, hut I’m sure Mr. Potter ain’t the doc- 
tor to set the world right, any more than Mr. Derry is for Mr. 
Kitely’s watch.” 

The associations in Mattie’s mind were not always very clear 
either to herself or other people ; they were generally just, 
notwithstanding. 

But you have never been to Mr. Potter’s church to know, 
Mattie.” 

“ Oh ! haven’t I, just ? Times and times. Mr. Spelt has 
been a-taking of me. I do believe mother thinks I am going 
to die, and wants to get me ready. I wonder what it all 
means ? ” 

Nonsense, Mattie ! ” said Lucy, already turned a little 
aside from her own sorrow by the words of the child. You 
must put on your hat and come out with me.” 

My bonnet, miss. Hats are only flt for very little girls. 
And I won’t go till you read this poetry to me — if it be 
poetry.” 

Lucy took the book, and read. The verses were as follows : 

As Christ went into Jericho town, 

’Twas darkness all, from toe to crown, 

About blind Bartimeus. 

He said, Our eyes are more than dim, 

An d so, of course, we don’t see Him, 

But David’s Son can see us. 

Cry out, cry out, blind brother, cry ; 

Let not salvation dear go by ; 

Have mercy, Son of David. 

Though they were blind, they both could hear— 

They heard, and cried, and he drew near ; 

And so the blind were saved. 


144 


Guild Court. 


0 Jesus Christ! I’m deaf and blind, 

Nothing comes through into my mind, 

I only am not dumb. 

Although I see thee not, nor hear, 

1 cry because thou may’st be near ; 

0 Son of David, come. 

A finger comes into my ear ; 

A voice comes through the deafness drear ; 

Poor eyes, no more be dim. 

A hand is laid upon mine eyes ; 

I hear, I feel, I see, I rise — 

’Tis He, I follow Him. 

Before Lucy had finished reading the not very poetic lines, 
they had somehow or other reached her heart. For they had 
one quality belonging to most good poetry — that of directness 
or simplicity ; and never does a mind like hers — like hers, I 
mean, in truthfulness — turn more readily toward the unseen, 
the region out of which even that which is seen comes, than 
when a rain-cloud enwraps and hides the world around it, 
leaving thus, as it were, only the passage upward open. She 
closed the little book gently, laid it down, got Mattie’s bonnet, 
and, heedless of the remarks of the child upon the poem, put 
it on her, and led her out. Her heart was too full to speak. 
As they went through the shop — 

A pleasant walk to you, ladies,” said the bookseller. 
Thank you, Mr. Kitely,” returned his daughter, for Lucy 
could not yet speak. 

They had left Bagot Street, and were in one of the principal 
thoroughfares, before Lucy had got the lump in her throat 
sufficiently swallowed to be able to speak. She had not yet 
begun to consider where they should go. When they came out 
into the wider street, the sun, now near the going down, was 
shining golden through a rosy fog. Long shadows lay or flit- 
ted about over the level street. Lucy had never before taken 
any notice of the long shadows of evening. Although she was 
a town girl, and had therefore had comparatively few chances, 
yet in such wide streets as she had sometimes to traverse they 
were not a rare sight. In the city, to be sure, they are much 
rarer. But the reason she sav/ them now was that her sorrow- 
ful heart saw the sorrowfulness of the long shadows out of the 
rosy mist, and made her mind observe them. The sight 
brought the tears again into her eyes, and yet soothed her. 
They looked so strange upon that wood-paved street, that 
they seemed to have wandered from some heathy moor and 


145 


Hoio Lucy Spent the Night, 

lost themselyes in the labyrinth of the city. Even more than 
the scent of the hay in the early morning, floating into the si- 
lent streets from the fields round London, are these long shad- 
ows to the lover of nature, convincing him that what seems 
the unnatural Babylon of artifice and untruth, is yet at least 
within the region of nature, contained in her bosom and sub- 
jected to her lovely lav/s ; is on the earth as truly as the grassy 
field upon which the child sees with delighted awe his very 
own shadow stretch out to such important, yea, portentous, 
length. Even hither come the marvels of Nature’s magic. 
Not all the commonplaces of ugly dwellings, and cheating 
shops that look churches in the face and are not ashamed, can 
shut out that which gives mystery to the glen far withdrawn, 
and loveliness to the mountain-side. From this moment Lucy 
began to see and feel things as she had never seen or felt them 
before. Her weeping had made way for a deeper spring in 
her nature to flow — a gain far more than sufficient to repay 
the loss of such a lover as Thomas, if indeed she must lose 
him. 

But Mattie saw the shadows too. 

Well, miss, who’d have thought of such a place as this ! 
I declare it bewilders my poor head. I feel every time a horse 
puts his foot on my shadow as if I must cry out. Isn’t it 
silly ? It’s all my big head — it’s not me, you know, miss.” 

fjucy could not yet make the remark, and therefore I make 
it for her — lioyr often we cry out when something steps on our 
shadow, passing yards away from ourselves ! There is not a 
phenomenon of disease — not even of insanity — ^that has not its 
counterpart in our moral miseries, all springing from v/ant of 
faith in God. At least, so it seems to me. That will ac- 
count for it all, or looks as if it would ; and nothing else 
does. 

It seems to me, too, that in thinking of the miseries and 
wretchedness in the world we seldom think of the other side. 
We hear of an event in association with some certain individ- 
ual, and we say — How dreadful ! How miserable ! ” And 
perhaps we say — ^^Is there — can there be a God in the earth 
when such a thing can take place ? ” But we do not see into 
the region of actual suffering or conflict. We do not see the 
heart where the shock falls. We neither see the proud bracing 
of energies to meet the ruin that threatens, nor the gracious 
faint in which the weak escape from writhing. We do not see 
the abatement of pain which is Paradise to the tortured ; we 
do not see the gentle upholding in sorrow that comes even 
10 


146 


Guild Court 


from the ministrations of nature— not to speak of human 
nature — to delicate souls. In a word, we do not see, and the 
sufferer himself does not understand, how God is present every 
moment, comforting, upholding, heeding that the pain shall 
not be more than can be borne, making the thing possible and 
not hideous. I say nothing of the peaceable fruits that are to 
spring therefrom ; and who shall dare to say where they shall 
not follow upon such tearing up of the soil ? Even those long 
shadows gave Lucy some unknown comfort, flowing from 
E’ature’s recognition of the loss of her lover ; and she clasped 
the little hand more tenderly, as if she would thus return her 
thanks to Nature for the kindness received. 

To get out of the crowd on the pavement Lucy turned aside 
into a lane. She had got half way down it before she dis- 
covered that it was one of those through which she had passed 
the night before, when she went with Thomas to the river. She 
turned at once to leave it. As she turned, right before her 
stood an open church door. It was one of those sepulchral 
city churches, where the voice of the clergyman sounds ghostly, 
and it seems as if the dead below were more real in their pres- 
ence than the half dozen worshipers scattered among the 
pews. 

On this occasion, however, there were seven present when 
Lucy and Mattie entered and changed the mystical number to 
the magical. 

It was a church named outlandishly after a Scandinavian 
saint. Some w^orthy had endowed a week-evening sermon 
there after better fashion than another had endowed the poor 
of the parish. The name of the latter was recorded in golden 
letters upon a black tablet in the vestibule, as the donor of 
£200, with the addition in letters equally golden. None of 
luMch was ever paid hy his trustees, 

I will tell you who the worshipers were. There was the 
housekeeper in a neighboring warehouse, wLo had been in a 
tumult all the day, and at night-fall thought of the kine- 
browsed fields of her childhood, and went to church. There 
was an old man who had once been manager of a bank, and 
had managed it ill both for himself and his company ; and 
having been dismissed in consequence, had first got weak in 
the brain, and then begun to lay up treasure in Leaven. 
Then came Ji brother and two sisters, none of them under 
seventy. The former kept shifting his brown wig and taking 
snuff the whole of the service, and the latter two wiping, 
with yellow silk handkerchiefs, brown faces inlaid with com- 


147 


How Lucy Spent the Night 


dust. They could not agree well enough to live together, for 
their father’s will Avas the subject of constant quarrel. They 
therefore lived in three lodgings at considerable distances apart. 
But every night in the week they met at this or that church 
similarly endowed, sat or knelt or stood in holy silence or 
sacred speech for an hour and a half, walked together to the 
end of the lane discussing the sermon, and then separated till 
the following evening. Thus the better parts in them made a 
refuge of the house of God, where they came near to each 
other, and the destroye; '' ' ^ s season. 



These, with the beadle 


Mattie. 


made up the congregation. 

Noav, when they left the lane there was no sun to be seen ; 
but when they entered the church, there he was —bis last rays 
pouring in through a richly stained window, the only beauty 
of the building. This window — a memorial one — ^was placed 
in the northern side of the chancel, whence a passage through 
houses, chimneys, and churches led straight to the sunset, 
down which the last rays I speak of came speeding for one 
brief moment ere all was gone, and the memorial as faded and 
gray as the memory of the man to whom it was dedicated. 

This change from the dark lane to the sun-lighted church 
laid hold of Lucy’s feelings. She did not know what it made 
her feel, but it aroused her with some vague sense of that 
sphere of glory which enwraps all our lower spheres, and she 
bowed her knees and her head, and her being worshiped, if her 
thoughts were too troubled to go upward. The prayers had 
commenced, and she kneeled, the words He pardoneth and 
absolveth,” were the first that found luminous entrance into 
her soul ; and with them came the picture of Thomas as he 
left the court with the man of the bad countenance. Of him, 
and what he might be about, her mind was full ; but every 
now and then a flash of light, in the shape of words, broke 
through the mist of her troubled thoughts, and testified of the 
glory-sphere beyond ; till at length her mind was so far calmed 
that she became capable of listening a little to the discourse of 
the preacher. 

Ho was not a man of the type of Mr. Potter of St. Jacob’s, 
who considered himself possessed' of worldly privileges in vir- 
tue of a heavenly office not one of whose duties he fulfilled in 
a heavenly fashion. Some people considered Mr. Puller very 
silly for believing that he might do good in a church like this, 
with a congregation like this, by speaking that which he knew, 
and testifying that which he had seen. But he did actually 


148 


Guild Court, 


belicYO it. Sonieliow or other — I think because he was so 
much in the habit of looking up to the Father — the prayers 
took a hold of him once more every time he read them ; and 
he so delighted in the truths he saw that he rejoiced to set 
them forth — was actually glad to tallc about them to any one 
who would listen. When he confessed his feeJh'vg about con- 
gregations, he said that ho preferred twelve people to a thou- 
sand. This he considered a weakness, however ; except that 
ho could more easily let his heart out to the tv/elve. 

He took for his text the words of our Lord, Come unto me, 
all ye that labor and are heavy laden.” He could not see the 
strangers, for they sat behind a pillar, and therefore he had no 
means for discovering that each of them had a heavy-laden 
heart ; Lucy was not alone in trouble, for Syne had been hard 
upon Mattie that day. He addressed himself especially to the 
two old women before him, of whose story he knew nothing, 
though their faces were as well known to him as the pillars of 
the church. But the basin into which the fountain of his 
speech flowed was the heart of those girls. 

No doubt presented itself as to the truth of what the 
preacher was saying ; nor could either of them have given a 
single argument from history or criticism for the reality of the 
message upon which the preacher founded his exhortation. The 
truth is not dependent upon proof for its working. Its rela- 
tion to the human being is essential, is in the nature of things ; 
so that if it be but received in faith— that is, acted upon — it 
works its own work, and needs the buttressing of no argu- 
ments any more than the true operation of a healing plant is 
dependent upon a knovdedge of Dioscoridcs. My reader must 
not, therefore, suppose that I consider doubt an unholy thing ; 
on the contrary, I consider spiritual doubt a far more precious 
thing than intellectual conviction, for it springs from the 
awaking of a deeper necessity than any that can be satisfied 
from the region of logic. But when the truth has begun to 
work its OMXi influence in any heart, that heart has begun to 
rise out of the region of doubt. 

When tliey came from the church, Lucy and Mattie walked 
hand in hand after the sisters and brother, and heard them 
talk. 

^^He’s a young one, that!” said the old man. He’ll 
know a little better by the time he’s as old as I am. ” 

Well, I did think he went a little too far when he said a 
body might be as happy in the work’us as with thousands of 
pounds in the Bank of England.” 


149 


Hoio Lucy Spent the Night 

I don’t know,” interposed the other sister. He said it 
depended on what you’d got inside you. Now, if you’ve got a 
bad temper inside you, all you’ve got won’t make you happy.” 

‘‘Thank you, sister. You’re very polite, usual. But, 
after all, where should we have been but for the trifle we’ve 
got in the bank ? ” 

“ You two might ha’ been living together like sisters, in- 
stead of quarreling like two cats, if the money had gone as it 
ought to,” said the old man, who considered that the whole 
property belonged of right to him. 

By this time they had reached the end of the lane, and, 
without a word to each other, they separated. 

“ Syne,” said Mattie, significantly. S 3 me was evidently her 
evil incarnation. Lucy did not reply, but hastened home with 
her, anxious to be alone. She did not leave the child, how- 
ever, before she had put her to bed, and read again the hymn 
that had taken her fancy before they went out. 

I will now show my reader how much of the sermon re- 
mained upon Lucy’s mind. She sat a few minutes with her 
grandmother, and then told her that she felt better, but would 
like to go to bed. So she took her candle and went. As soon 
as she had closed the door, she knelt down by her bedside, and 
said something like this — more broken, and with long pauses 
between — but like this : 

“0 Jesus Christ, I come. I don’t know any other way to 
come. I speak to thee. Oh, hear me. I am weary and heavy 
laden. Give me rest. Help me to put on the yoke of thy 
meekness and thy lowliness of heart, which thou sayest will 
give rest to our souls. I cannot do it without thy help. Thou 
couldst do it without help. I cannot. Teach me. Give me 
thy rest. How am I to begin ? How am I to take thy yoke 
on me ? I must be meek. I am very troubled and vexed. 
Am I angry ? Am I unforgiving ? Poor Thomas ! Lord 
Jesus, have mercy upon Thomas. He does not know what he 
is doing. I will be very patient. I will sit with my hands 
folded, and bear all my sorrow, and not vex Grannie with it ; 
and I won’t say an angry word to Thomas. But, 0 Lord, 
have mercy upon him, and make him meek and lowly of 
heart. I have not been sitting at thy feet and learning of 
thee. Thou canst take all my trouble away by making 
Thomas good. I ought to have tried hard to keep him in the 
way his mother taught him, and I have been idle and self- 
indulgent, and taken up with my music and dresses. I have 
not looked to my heart to see whether it was meek and lowly 


150 


Guild Court 


like thine. 0 Lord, thoii hast given me everything, and I 
have not thought about thee. I thank thee that thou hast 
made me miserable, for now I shall be thy child. Thou canst 
bring Thomas home again to thee. Thou canst make him 
meek and lowly of heart, and give rest to his soul. Amen.^^ 

Is it any wonder that she should have risen from her knees 
comforted ? I think not. She was already — gentle and good 
as she had always been — more meek and lowly. She had be- 
gun to regard this meekness as the yoke of Jesus, and there- 
fore to will it. Already, in a measure, she was a partaker of 
his peace. 

Worn out by her suffering, and soothed by her prayer, she 
fell asleep the moment she laid her head upon the pillow. 
And thus Lucy passed the night. 


CHAPTEE XXI. 

MORE SHUFPLING. 

Tom went home the next night with a racking headache. 
Gladly would he have gone to Lucy to comfort him, but he 
was too much ashamed of his behavior to her the night before, 
and too uneasy in his conscience. He was, indeed, in an ab- 
ject condition of body, intellect, and morals. He went at 
once to his own room and to bed ; f«ll asleep ; woke in the 
middle of the night miserably gnawed by Don Worm, the 
conscience ; ” tried to pray, and found it did him no good ; 
turned his thoughts to Lucy, and burst into tears at the recol- 
lection of how he had treated her, imagining over and over 
twenty seenes in which he begged her forgiveness, till he fell 
asleep at last, dreamed that she turned her baek upon him, 
and refused to hear him, and woke in the morning with the 
resolution of going to see her that night and confessing every- 
thing. 

His father had come home after he went to bed, and it was 
with great trepidation that he went down to breakfast, almost 
expecting to find that he knew already of his relation to Lucy. 
But Kichard Boxall was above that kind of thing, and Mr. 
Worboise was evidently free from any suspicion of the case. 


More Shnjffling, 151 

He greeted his son kindly, or rather frankly, and seemed to he 
in good spirits. 

‘‘ Our friends are well down the Channel by this time, with 
such a fair wind,’’ he said. Boxall’s a lucky man to be able 
to get away from business like that. I wish you had taken a 
fancy to Mary, Tom. She’s sure to get engaged before she 
comes back. Shipboard’s a great place for getting engaged. 
Some hungTy fellow, with a red coat and an empty breeches- 
pocket, is sure to pick her up. You might haye had her if 
you had liked. Howeyer, you may do as well yet ; and you 
needn’t be in a hurry now. It’s not enough that there’s as 
good fish in the sea : they must come to your net, you know.” 

Tom laughed it off, went to his office, worked the weary day 
through, and ran round to Guild Court the moment he left 
business. 

Lucy had waked in the night as well as Tom ; but she had 
waked to the hope that there was a power somewhere — a power 
working good, and upholding them that loye it ; to the hope 
that a thought liyed all through the dark, and would one day 
make the darkness light about her ; to the hope that a heart 
of loye and help was at the heart of things, and would show 
itself for her need. When, therefore, Tom knocked — timidly 
almost — at the door, and opened it inquiringly, she met him 
with a strange light in her pale face, and a smile flickering 
about a lip that trembled in sympathy with her rain-clouded 
eyes. She held out her hand to him cordially, but neither 
offered to embrace — Thomas from shame, and Lucy from a 
feeling of something between that had to be remoyed before 
things could be as they were — or rather before their outward 
behayior to each other could be the same, for things could not 
to all eternity be the same again : they must be infinitely better 
and more beautiful, or cease altogether. 

Thomas gaye a look for one moment full in Lucy’s eyes, 
and then dropped his own, holding her still by the consenting 
hand. 

‘‘Will you forgiyo me, Lucy?” he said, in a yoice partly 
choked by feeling, aud partly by the presence of Mrs. Boxall, 
who, howeyer, could not hear what passed between them, for 
she sat knitting at the other end of the large room. 

“ Oh, Tom T” answered Lucy, with a gentle pressure of his 
hand. 

Now, as all that Tom wanted was to be reinstated in her 
fayor, he took the words as the seal of the desired reconcilia- 
tion, and went no further with any confession. The words. 


152 


Guild Court 


however, meaning simply that she loved him and wanted to 
love him, ought to have made Tom the more anxious to con- 
fess all — not merely the rudeness of which he had been guilty 
and which had driven her from the room, but the wrong he 
had done her in spending the evening in such company ; for 
surely it was a grievous wrong to a pure girl like Lucy to spend 
the space between the last and the next pressure of her hand 
in an atmosphere of vice. But the cloud cleared from his 
brow, and, with a sudden reaction of spirits, he began to be 
merry. To this change, however, Lucy did not respond. The 
cloud seemed rather to fall more heavily over her countenance. 
She turned from him, and went to a chair opposite her p'and- 
mother. Tom followed, and sat down beside her. lie was 
sympathetic enough to see that things were not right between 
tnem after all. But he referred it entirely to her uneasiness 
at his parents’ ignorance of their engagement. 

Some of my readers may think that Lucy, too, was to blame 
for want of decision ; that she ought to have refused to see 
Thomas even once again, till he had made his parents aware 
of their relation to each other. But knowing how little sym- 
pathy and help he had from those parents, she felt that to be 
severe upon him thus would be like turning him out into a 
snow-storm to find his way home across a desolate moor ; and 
her success by persuasion would be a better thing for Thomas 
than her success by compulsion. No doubt, if her rights alone 
had to be considered, and not the necessities of Thomas’s moral 
nature, the plan she did not adopt would have been the best. 
But no one livetli to himself — not even a woman whose dignity 
is in danger — and Lucy did not think of herself alone. Yet, 
for the sake of both, she remained perfectly firm in her pur- 
pose that Thomas should do something. 

Your uncle has said nothing about that unfortunate rencon- 
tre, Lucy,” said Tom, hoping that what had relieved him 
would relieve her. My father came home last night, and the 
paternal brow is all serene.” 

‘‘ Then I suppose you said something about it, Tom ?” said 
Lucy, with a faint hope dawning in her heart. 

Oh ! there’s time enough for that. I’ve been thinking 
about it, 3^ou see, and I’ll soon convince you,” he added, hur- 
riedly, seeing the cloud grow deeper on Lucy’s face. I must 
tell jrou something which I would rather not have mentioned.” 

Don’t tell me, if you ought not to tell me, Tom,” said 
Lucy, whose conscience had grown more delicate than ever, 
both fropa the turning of her own face toward the light, and 


More Shuffling, 153 

from the growing feeling that Tom was not to be trusted as a 
guide. 

There’s no reason why I shouldn’t,” returned Tom. It’s 
only this— that my father is vexed with me because I wouldn’t 
make love to your cousin Mary, and that I have let her slip 
out of my reach now ; for, as he says, somebody will be sure 
to snap hp up before she conies back. So it’s just the worst 
time possible to tell him anything unpleasant, you know. I 
really had far better wait till the poor girl is well out to sea, 
and off my father’s mind ; for I assure you, Lucy, it will be 
no joke when he does know. He’s not in any mood for the 
news just now, I can tell you. And then my mother’s away, 
too, and there’s nobody to stand between me and him.” 

Lucy made no reply to his speech, uttered in the eagerness 
(vith which a man, seeking to defend a bad position, sends one 
weak word after another, as if the accumulation of poor argu- 
ments would make up for the lack of a good one. She sat for 
a long^ minute looking down on a spot in the carpet — the sight 
of which ever after was the signal for a pain-throb ; then, in 
a hopeless tone, said, with a great sigh : 

I’ve done all I can.” 

The indefiniteness of the words frightened Thomas, and he 
began again to make his position good. 

tell you what, Lucy,” he said ; give you my promise 
that before another month is over — that is to give my father 
time to get over his vexation — I will tell him all about it, and 
take the consequences.” 

Lucy sighed once more, and looked dissatisfied. But again 
it passed through her mind that if she were to insist further, 
and refuse to see Thomas until he had complied with her just 
desire, she would most likely so far weaken, if not break, the 
bond between them, as to take from him the only influence 
that might yet work o:i him for good, and expose him entirely 
to such influences as she most feared. Therefore she said no 
more. But she could not throw the weight off her, or behavo 
to Thomas as she had behaved hitherto. They sat silent for 
some time — Thomas troubled before Lucy, Lucy troubled 
about Thomas. Then, with another sigh, Lucy rose and 
v/ent to the piano. She had never done so before when 
Thomas was with her, for he did not care much about her 
music. How she thought of it as the only way of breaking 
the silence. But what should she play ? 

Then came into her memory a stately, sweet song her father 
used to sing. She did not know where he get either the 


154 


Guild Court 


words or the music of it. I know that the words are from 
Petrarch. Probably her father had translated them, for he 
had been much in Italy, and was a delicately gifted man. But 
whose was the music, except it was his own, I do not know. 
And as she sang the words, Lucy perceived for the first time 
how much they meant, and how they belonged to her ; for in 
singing them she prayed both for herself and for Thomas. 

I am so weary with the burden old 
Of foregone faults, and power of custom base, 

That much I fear to perish from the ways, 

And fall into my enemy’s grim hold. 

A mighty friend, to free me, though self-sold 
Came, of his own ineffable high grace. 

Then went, and from my vision took his face. 

Him now in vain I weary to behold. 

But still his voice comes echoing below ; 

O ye that labor ! see, here is the gate ! 

Come unto me — the way all open lies I 

What heavenly grace will— what love — or what fate— 

The glad wings of a dove on me bestow. 

That I may rest, and from the earth arise ? * 

Her sweet tones, the earnest music, and the few phrases he 
could catch here and there, all had their influence upon Tom. 
They made him feel. And with that, as usual, he was con- 
tent. Lucy herself had felt as she had never felt before, and, 
therefore, sung as she had never sung before. And Tom was 
astonished to find that her voice had such power over him, 
and began to wonder how it was that he had not found it out 
before. He went home more solemn and thoughtful than he 
had ever been. 

Still he did nothing. 


CHAPTEE XXII. 

A COMIKG EVEKT. 

Thus things went on for the space of about three weeks. 
Tom went to see Lucy almost every night, and sometimes 
stayed late ; for his mother was still from home, and his father 
was careless about his hours so long as they were decent. 


* Petrarch’s sixtieth Sonnet. 


155 


A Coming Event 

Lucy’s face continued grave, but lost a little of its trouble ; 
for Tom often asked her to sing to him now, and she thought 
she was gaining more of the influence over him which she so 
honestly wished to possess. As the month drew toward a 
close, however, the look of anxiety began to deepen upon her 
countenance. 

One evening, still and sultry, they were together as usual. 
Lucy was sitting at the piano, where she had just been sing- 
ing, and Tom stood beside her. The evening, as the Italian 
poets would say, had grown brown, and Mrs. Boxall was just 
going to light the candles, when Tom interposed a request for 
continued twilight. 

Please, grannie,” he said — for he too called her grannie — 
‘‘do not light the candles yet. It is so sweet and dusky — just 
like Lucy here.” 

“All very well for you,” said Mrs. Boxall ; “but what is to 
become of me ? My love-making was over long ago, and I 
want to see what I’m about now. Ah ! young people, your 
time will come next. Make hay while the sun shines.” 

“ While the candle’s out, you mean, grannie,” said Tom, 
stealing a kiss from Lucy. 

“I hear more than you think for,” said the cheery old wom- 
an. “I’ll give you just five minutes’ grace, and then I 
mean to have my own way. I am not so fond of darkness, I 
can tell you.” 

“How close it is !” said Lucy. “Will you open the win- 
dow a little wider, Tom. Mind the flowers.” 

She came near the window, which looked down on the little 
stony desert of Guild Court, and sank into a high-backed 
chair that stood beside it. 

• “lean hardly drag one foot after another,” she said, “I 
feel so oppressed and weary.” 

“And I,” said Tom, who had taken his place behind her, 
leaning on the back of her chair, “ am as happy as if I were 
in Paradise.” 

“ There must be thunder in the air,” said Lucy. “ I fancy 
I smell the lightning already. Oh, dear ! ” 

“Are you afraid of lightning, then ?” asked Thomas. 

“ I do not think I am exactly ; but it shakes me so ! I can’t 
explain what I mean. It affects me like a false tone on the 
violin. No, that’s not it. I can’t tell what it is like.” 

A fierce flash broke in upon her words. Mrs. Boxall gave a 
scream. 

“ The Lord be about us from harm I” she cried. 


156 


Guild Court 


Lucy sat trembling. 

I'homas did not know bow much sbo had to make her trem- 
ble. It is wonderful what can bo seen in a single moment 
under an intense light. In that one flash Lucy had seen Mr. 
Molken and another man seated at a table, casting dice, with 
the eagerness of hungry fiends upon both their faces. 

A few moments after the first flash, the wind began to rise, 
and as flash followed flash, with less and less of an interyal, 
the wind rose till it blow a hurricane, roaring in the chimney 
and through the archway as if it were a wild beast caged in 
Guild Court, and wanting to get out. 

When the second flash came, Lucy saw that the blind of 
Mr. Molken’s window was drawn down. 

All night long the storm raved about London. Chimney- 
pots clashed on the opposite pavements. One crazy old house, 
and one yet more crazy new one, were blown down. Even the 
thieves and burglars retreated to their dens. But before it 
had reached its Avorst Thomas had gone home. He lay awake 
for some time listening to the tumult and rejoicing in it, for it 
roused his imagination and the delight that comes of behold- 
ing danger from a far-removed safety — a selfish pleasure, and 
ready to pass from a sense of our OAvn comfort into a com- 
placent satisfaction in the sufl'ering of others. 

Lucy lay awake for hours. There was no more lightning, 
but the howling of the wind tortured her — that is, drew dis- 
cords from the slackened strings of the human instrument — 
her nerA’es ; made ‘‘broken music in her sides.” She reaped 
this benefit, however, that such winds always drove her to her 
prayers. On the wings of the wind itself, she hastened her 
escape “ from the windy storm and tempest.” When at last 
she fell asleep, it was to dream that another flash of light- 
ning — Avhen or where appearing she did not know — revealed 
Thomas casting dice with Molken, and then left them lapt in 
the darkness of a godless world. She woke weeping, fell 
asleep again, and dreamed that she stood in the darkness once 
more, and that somewhere near Thomas v/as casting dice with 
the devil for his soul, but she could neither see him nor cry to 
him, for the darkness choked both voice and eyes. Then a 
hand Avas laid upon her head, and she heard the words — ^not in 
her ears, but in her heart — “ Be of good cheer, my daughter.” 
It was only a dream ; but I doubt if even — I must not name 
names, lest I should be interpreted widely from my meaning— 
the greatest positivist alive could have helped waking with 
some comfort from that dream, nay, could have helped deriving 


Mattie's lUness. 


157 


a faint satisfaction from it, if it happened to return upon him 
during the day. But in no such man would such a dream 
arise,’’ my reader may object. ‘‘Ah, well,” I answer, because 
I have nothing more to say. And perhaps even in what I 
have written I may have been doing or hinting some wrong to 
some of the class. It is dreadfully difficult to be just. It is 
far easier to be kind than to be fair. 

It v^as not in London or the Empire only that that storm 
raged that night. From all points of the compass came re- 
ports of its havoc. Whether it was the same storm, however, 
or another on the same night, I cannot tell ; but on the next 
morning save one, a vessel passing one of the rocky islets be- 
longing to the Cape Verde group, found the fragments of a 
wreck floating on the water. The bark had parted amidships, 
for, on sending a boat to the island, they found her stern lying 
on a reef, round which little innocent waves were talking like 
human children. And on her stern they read her name, 
NingpOf London, On the narrow strand they found three 
bodies ; one, that of a young woman, vestureless and broken. 
They buried them as they could. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 
Mattie’s illkess. 

The storm of that night beat furiously against poor Mattie’s 
window, and made a dreadful tumult in her big head. When 
her father went into her little room, as was his custom every 
morning when she did not first appear in his, he found her 
lying awake, with wide eyes, seemingly unaware of what was 
before them. Her head and her hand were both hot ; and 
when her father at length succeeded in gaining some notice 
from her, the words she spoke, although in themselves intelli- 
gible enough, had reference to what she had been going through 
in the night, in regions far withdrawn, and conveyed to him 
no understanding of her condition further than that she was 
wandering. In great alarm he sent the char-woman (whose 
morning visits were Mattie’s sole assistance in the house, for 
they always had their dinner from a neighboring cook-shop) 


158 Guild Court, 

to fetch the doctor, while he went up the court to ask Lucy to 
come and see her. 

Lucy was tossing in a troubled dream when she woke to 
hear the knock at the door. Possibly the whole dream passed 
between the first and second summons of the bookseller, who 
was too anxious and eager to shrink from rousing the little 
household. She thought she was one of the ten virgins ; but 
whether one of the wise or foolish she did not know. She had 
knocked at a door, and as it opened, her lamp went out in the 
wind it made. But a hand laid hold of hers in the dark, and 
would have drawn her into the house. Then she knew that 
she was holding another hand, which at first she took to be 
that of one of her sisters, but found to be Thomas’s. She clung 
to it, and would have drawn him into the house with her, but 
she could not move him. And still the other hand kept draw- 
ing her in. She woke in an agony just as she was losing her 
hold of Thomas, and heard Mr. Kitely’s knock. She was out 
of bed in a moment, put on her dressing-gown and her shoes, 
and ran down stairs. 

On learning what was the matter she made haste to dress, 
and in a few minutes stood by Mattie’s bedside. But the child 
did not know her. When the doctor came, he shook his head, 
though he was one of the most undemonstrative of his profes- 
sion ; and after prescribing for her, said she must be watched 
with the greatest care, and gave Lucy urgent directions about 
her treatment. Luey resolved that she would not leave her, 
and began at once to make what preparations were necessary 
for carrying out the doctor’s instructions. Mattie took the 
medicine he sent ; and in a little while the big eyes began to 
close, sui^k and opened again, half closed and then started 
wide open, to settle their long lashes at last, after many slow 
flutterings, upon the pale cheek below them. Then Lucy 
wrote a note to Mrs. Morgenstern, and left her patient to run 
across to her grandmother to consult with her how she should 
send it. But when she opened the door into the court, there 
was Poppie, who of course flitted the moment she saw her, but 
only a little v/ay off, like a bold bird. 

‘‘Poppie, dear Poppie !” cried Lucy, earnestly, “do come 
here. I want you.” 

“ Plowed if I go there again, lady ! ” said Poppie, without 
moving in either direction. 

“ Come here, Poppie. I won’t touch you — promise you. 
I wouldn’t tell you a lie, Poppie,” she added, seeing that she 
made no impression on the child. 


Mattie's lUness. 159 

To judge by the way Poppie came a yard nearer, she did 
not seem at all satisfied by the assurance. 

Look here, Poppie. There’s a little girl — you know her 
— Mattie — she’s lying very ill here, and I can’t leave her. Will 
you take this letter for me — to that big house in Wyvil Place 
— to tell them I can’t come to-day ? ” 

They’ll wash me,” said Poppie, decisively. 

Oh, no, they won’t again, Poppie. They know now that 
you don’t like it.” 

‘‘They’ll be giving me something I don’t want, then. I 
know the sort of them. ” 

“You needn’t go into the house at all. Just ring the bell, 
and give the letter to the servant.” 

Poppie came close up to Lucy. 

“ I’ll tell you what, lady : I’m not afraid of him. He won’t 
touch me again. If he do. I’ll bite worser next time. But I 
won’t run errands for nothink. Nobody does, miss. You 
ain’t forgotten what you guv me last time ? Do it again, and 
I’m off.” 

“A good wash, Poppie — that’s what I gave you last time.” 

“No, miss,” returned the child, looking up in her face 
beseechingly. “You know as well as me.” And she held up 
her pretty grimy mouth, so that her meaning could not be 
mistaken. “ Old Mother Flanaghan gave me a kiss once. 
You remember her gin-bottle, don’t you, miss ? ” she added, 
still holding up her mouth. 

For a moment Lucy did hesitate, but from no yielding to 
the repugnance she naturally felt at dirt. She hesitated, 
thinking to make a stipulation on her side, for the child’s 
good. 

“ I tell you what, Poppie,” she said ; “ I will kiss you every 
time you come to me with a clean face, as often as you like.” 

Poppie’s dirty face fell. She put out her hand, took the 
letter, turned, and went away slowly. 

Lucy could not bear it. She darted after her, caught her, 
and kissed her. The child, without looking round, instantly 
scudded. 

Lucy could hardly believe her eyes, when, going down at 
Mr. Kitely’s call, some time after, she found Poppie in the 
shop. 

“ She says she wants to see you, miss,” said Kitely. “ I 
don’t know what she wants. Begging, I suppose.” 

And so she was. But all her begging lay in the cleanness 
and brightness of her countenance. She might have been a 


160 


Guild Court 


little saint but for the fact that her aureole was all in her face, 
and around it lay a border of darkness that might be felt. 

Back already ! ’’ said Lucy, in astonishment. 

‘^Yes, lady. I didn't bite him. I thro wed the letter at 
him, and he throwed it out again ; and says I, pickin’ of it 
up, ^You’ll hear o’ this to-morrow. Plush.’ And says he, 
^ Give me that letter, you wagabones.’ And I throwed it at 
him again, and he took it up and looked at it, and took it in. 
And here I am, lady,” added Poppie, making a display of her 
clean face. 

Lucy, kissed her once more, and she was gone in a moment. 

While Mattie was asleep Lucy did all she could to change 
the aspect of the place. 

She shan’t think of Syne the first thing when she comes 
to herself,” she said. 

With the bookseller’s concurrence, who saw the reason for 
it the moment she uttered it, she removed all the old black 
volumes within sight of her bed, and replaced them with the 
brightest bindings to be found in the shop. She would rather 
have got rid of the books altogether ; but there was no time 
for that now. Then she ventured, finding her sleep still en- 
dure, to take down the dingy old chintz curtains from her 
tent bed, and replace them with her own white dimity. These 
she tlien drew close round the bed, and set about cleaning the 
window, inside and out. Her fair hands were perfectly tit for 
such work, or any other labor that love chose to require of 
them. “Entire affection hateth nicer hands,” is one of the 
profoundest lines in all Spenser’s profound allegory. But she 
soon found that the light would be far too much for her little 
patient, especially as she had now only white curtains to screen 
her. So the next thing was to get a green blind for the win- 
dow. Hot before that was up did Mattie awake, and then 
only to stare about her, take her medicine, and fall asleep 
again ; or, at least, into some state resembling sleep. 

She was suffering from congestion of the brain. For a week 
she continued in nearly the same condition, during which 
time Lucy scarcely left her bedside. And it was a great 
help to her in her ovm trouble to have such a charge to fulfill. 

At length one morning, when the sun was shining clear and 
dewy through a gap between the houses of the court, and Lucy 
was rising early according to her custom — she lay on a sofa in 
Mattie’s room — the child opened her eyes and saw. Then she 
closed them again, and Lucy heard her murmuring to herself : 

“ Yes, I thought so. I’m dead. And it is so nice ; I’ve 


Mattie's lUness, 


161 


got white clouds to my bed. And there’s Syne cutting away 
with all his men — just like a black cloud — away out of the 
world. Ah ! I see you, Syne ; you ought to be ashamed of 
yourself for worrying me as you’ve been doing all this time. 
You see it’s no use. You ought really to give it up. He’s 
too much for you, anyhow.” 

This she said brokenly and at intervals. The whole week 
had been filled with visions of confiict with the enemy, and 
the Son of Man had been with her in those visions. The spir- 
itual struggles of them that are whole are the same in kind as 
those of this brain-sick child. They are tempted and driven 
to faithlessness, to self-indulgence, to denial of God and of his 
Christ, to give in— -for the s^e of peace, as they think. And 
I, believing that the very hairs of our heads are all numbered, 
and that not a sparrow can fall to the ground without our 
Father, believe that the Lord Christ — I know not how, be- 
cause such knowledge is too wonderful for me — is present in 
the soul of such a child, as certainly as in his Church, or in the 
spirit of a saint who, in his name, stands against the whole 
world. There are two ways in wliich He can be present in the 
Church, one in the ordering of the confluence and working of 
men’s deeds, the other in judgment : but he can be present in 
the weakest child’s heart, in the heart of any of his disciples, 
in an infinitely deeper way than those, and without this deeper 
presence, he would not care for the outside presence of the 
other modes. It is in the individual soul that the Spirit 
works, and out of which he sends forth fresh influences. And 
I believe that the good fight may be fought amid the wildest 
visions of a St. Anthony, or even in the hardest confinement 
of Bedlam. It was such a fight, perhaps, that brought the 
maniacs of old time to the feet of the Saviour, who gave them 
back their right mind. Let those be thankful who have it to 
fight amid their brothers and sisters, who can return look for 
look and word for word, and not among the awful visions of 
a tormented brain. 

“ As thick and numberless 
As the gay motes that people the sunbeams.” 


Lucy did not venture to show herself for a little while, but 
at lens^th she peeped within the curtain, and saw the child 
praying with folded hands. Ere she could withdraw, she 
opened her eyes and saw her. ^ ^ ^ 

I thought I was in heaven ! ” she said ; ^^but I don t mind, 

11 


162 


Guild Court, 


if you’re there, miss. I’ve been seeing you all through it. 
But it’s all over now,” she added, with a sigh of relief.” 

You must be very still, dear Mattie,” said Lucy. You 
are not well enough to talk yet.” 

I am quite well, miss ; only sleepy, I think.” And before 
Lucy could answer, she was indeed asleep once more. 

It was quite another fortnight before Lucy ventured- to give 
up her place to her grandmother. During this time, she saw 
very little of Thomas — only for a few minutes every evening 
as he left the place — and somehow she found it a relief not to 
see more of him. 

All the time of Mattie’s illness, Mr. Spelt kept coming to in- 
quire after her. He was in great concern about her, but he 
never asked to see her. He had a great gift in waiting, the 
little man. Possibly he fared the better, like Zaccheus, who 
wanted only to sec, and was seen. But perhaps his quietness 
might be partly attributed to another cause — namely, that 
since Mattie’s illness he had brooded more upon the suspicion 
that his wife had had a child. I cannot in the least dotermino 
whether this suspicion was a mere fancy or not ; but I know 
that the tailor thought he had good grounds for it ; and it 
does not require a very lawless imagination to presume the thing 
possible. 

Every day of those three weeks, most days more than once 
or twice even, Poppie was to be seen at one hour or other in 
Guild Court, prowling about — with a clean face, the only part 
of her, I am all but certain, that was clean — for. the chance of 
seeing Lucy. From what I know of Poppie, I cannot think 
that it was anxiety about Mattie that brought her there. I do 
not doubt that she was selfish — ^prowling about after a kiss 
from Lucy. And as often as Lucy saw her she had what she 
wanted. 

But if Lucy did not see her sometimes, at least there was 
one who always did see her from his nest in the — rock, I was 
going to say, but it was only the wall. I mean, of course, Mr. 
Spelt. He saw her, and watched her, until at length, as he 
plied his needle, the fancy which already occupied his brain 
began to develop itself, and he wondered whether that Poppie 
might not be his very lost child. ISTor had the supposition 
lasted more than five minutes before he passionately believed, 
or at least passionately desired to believe it, and began to devisa 
how to prove it, or at least to act upon it. 


Fishing for a Daughter. 


163 


CHAPTEE XXIV. 

FISniKG FOR A DAUGHTER. 

Mr. Spelt sat in liis watcli-tower, over the head of patiently- 
cobbling Mr. Dolman, reflecting. He too was trying to cob* 
ble — things in general, in that active head of his beneath its 
covering of heathery hair. But he did not conflne his efforts 
to things in general — one very particular thing had its share 
in the motions of his spirit--how to prove that Poppie was 
indeed his own child. He had missed his little Mattie much, 
and his child-like spirit was longing greatly after some child- 
like companionship. This, in Mattie’s case, he had found did 
him good, cleared his inward sight, helped him to cobble things 
even when her questions showed him the need of fresh patch- 
ing in many a place where he had not before perceived the 
rent or the thin-worn threads of the common argument or 
belief. And the thought had come to him that perhaps 
Mattie was taken away from him to teach him that he ought 
not, as Mattie had said with regard to Mrs. Morgenstern, to 
cultivate friendship only where he got good from it. The very 
possibility that he had a child somewhere in London seemed 
at length to make it his first duty to rescue some child or other 
from the abyss around him, and they were not a few swimming 
in the vast vortex. 

Having found out that Mrs. Flanaghan knew more about 
Poppie than anyone else, and that she crept oftcner into the 
bottom of an empty cupboard in her room than anywhere else, 
he went one morning to see whether he could not learn some- 
thing from the old Irishwoman. The place looked very differ- 
ent then from the appearance it presented to Lucy the day she 
found it inhabited by nobody, and furnished with nothing but 
the gin-bottle. 

When the tailor opened the door, he found the room swarm- 
ing with children. Though it was hot summer weather, a 
brisk fire burned in the grate ; and the place smelt strongly of 
reesty bacon. There were three different groups of children 
in three of the corners : one of them laying out the dead body 
of a terribly mutilated doll ; another, the tangle-haired mem- 
bers of which had certainly had no share in the bacon but the 
smell of it, sitting listlessly on the floor, leaning their backs 
against the wall, apparently without hope and without God in 
tiie world ; one of the third group searching for possible crumbs 


164 


Guild Court 


•where she had just had her breakfast, the other two lying ill of 
the measles on a heap of rags. Mrs. Flanaghan was in the act 
of pouring a little gin into her tea. The tailor was quick- 
eyed, and took in the most of this at a glance. But he thought 
he saw something more, namely, the sharp eyes of Poppie 
peeping through the crack of the cupboard. He therefore 
thought of nothing more but a hasty retreat, for Poppie must 
not know he came after her. 

‘^Good-morning to you, Mrs. Flanaghan,” he said, with 
almost Irish politeness. Then, at a loss for anything more, 
he ventured to add — “Don’t you think, ma’am, you’ll have 
too much on your hands if all them children takes after the 
two in the corner ? They’ve got the measles, ain’t they, 
ma’am ?” 

“ True for you, sir,” returned Mrs. Flanaghan, whom the 
gin had soothed after the night’s abstinence. “ But we’ll soon 
get rid o’ the varmint,” she said, rising from her seat. 
“ Praise God the Father ! we’ll soon get rid o’ them. Get 
out wid ye ! ” she went on, stamping with her foot on the 
broken floor. “ Get out ! What are ye doin’ i’ the house 
when ye ought to be enjoyin’ yerselves in the fresh air ? Gloiy 
be to God ! — there they go, as I tould you. And now what’ll 
I do for yerself this blessed marnin’ ? ” 

By this time the tailor had made up his mind to inquire 
after a certain Irishman, for whom he had made a garment of 
fustian, but who had never appeared to claim it. He did not 
expect her to know anything of the man, for he was consid- 
erably above Mrs. Flanaghan’s level, but it afforded a decent 
pretext. Mrs. Flanaghan, however, claimed acquaintance 
with him, and begged that the garment in question might be 
delivered into her hands in order to reach him, which the 
tailor, having respect both to his word and his work, took care 
not to promise. 

But as he went to his workshop, he thought what a gulf he 
had escaped. For suppose that Mrs. Flanaghan had been 
communicative, and had proved to his dissatisfaction that the 
girl was none of his ! Why, the whole remaining romance of 
his life would have been gone. It was far better to think that 
she was or might be his child, than to know that she was not. 
And, after all, what did it matter whether she vras or was not ? 
— thus the process of thinking went on in the tailor’s brain — 
was she not a child ? What matter whether his own or some one 
else’s ? God must have made her all the same. And if he 
were to find his own child at last, neglected and ignorant and 


Fishing for a Daughter, 165 

vicious, could he not pray better for her if he had helped the 
one he could help ? Might he not then say, 0 Lord, they 
took her from me, and I had no chance with her, but I did 
what I could — I caught a wild thing, and I tried to make 
something of her, and she’s none the worse for it — do Thou 
help my poor child, for I could not, and Thou canst. I give 
thee back thine, help mine.” Before he had reached his 
perch, he had resolved that ho would make no further inquiry 
whatever about Poppie, but try to get a hold of her, and do 
for her what he could. For whether he was her father or not, 
neither case could alter the facts, that she was worth helping, 
and that it would be very hard to get a hold of her. All that 
Poppie could know of fathers would only make her more un- 
willing to be caught if she had a suspicion that Mr. Spelt laid 
such a claim to her ; and he would therefore scheme as if 
their nearest common relations were ^^the grand old gardener 
and his wife,” and with the care which the shy startling na- 
ture of Poppie, to use a Chaucerian word, rendered necessary. 
Tailors have time to think about things ; and no circum- 
stances are more favorable to true thought than those of any 
work which, employing the hands, leaves the head free. Be- 
fore another day had passed Mr. Spelt had devised his bait. 

The next morning came— a lovely morning for such fishing 
as he contemplated. Pojipie appeared in the court, prowling 
as usual in the hope of seeing Lucy. But the tailor appeared 
to take no notice of her. Poppie’s keen eyes went roving 
about as usual, wide awake to the chance of finding some- 
thing. Suddenly she darted at a small object lying near the 
gutter, picked it up, put it in her mouth, and sucked ifc with 
evident pleasure. The tailor was as one who seeing sees not. 
Only he plied his needle and thread more busily, casting down 
sidelong glances in the drawing of the same. And there was 
no little triumph, for it was the triumph of confidence for the 
future, as well as of success for the present, in each of those 
glances. Suddenly Poppie ran away. 

The morning after she was there again. Half involuntarily, 
I suppose, her eyes returned to the spot where she had found 
the bull’s-eye. There, to the astonishment even of Poppie, 
who was very seldom astonished at anything, lay another — a 
larger one, as she saw at a glance, than the one she had found 
yesterday. It was in her mouth in a moment. But she gave 
a hurried glance round the court, and scudded at once. Like 
the cherub that sat aloft and saw what was going to come of 
it all, the little tailor drew his shortening thread, and smiled 


16G 


Guild Court 


somewhere inside liis impassive face, as he watched the little 
human butterfly, with its torn wings, lighting and flitting as 
in one and the same motion. 

The next morning there again sat Mr. Spelt at his work — 
working and watching. With the queerest look of inquiry 
and doubtful expectation, Poppie appeared from under the 
archway, with her head already turned toward El Dorado — 
namely, the flag-stone upon which the gifts of Providence had 
been set forth on other mornings. There — could she, might 
she, believe her eyes ? — lay a splendid 23olyhedral lump of rock, 
white as snow, and veined with lovely red. It was not quartz 
and porphyry, reader, but the most melting compound of 
sugar and lemon- juice that the sweet inventing Genius — why 
should she not have the name of a tenth muse ? Polyhedia, 
let us call her — had ever hatched in her brooding brain, as she 
bent over melting sugar or dark treacle, ^^in linked sweetness 
long drawn out.” This time Poppie hesitated a little, and 
glanced up and around. She saw nobody but the tailor, and 
he was too cunning even for her. Busy as a bee, he toiled 
away lightly and earnestly. Then, as if the sweetmeat had 
been a bird for which she was laying snares, as her would-be 
father was laying them for her, she took two steps nearer on 
tiptoe, then stopped and gazed again. It was not that she 
thought of stealing, any more than the birds who take what 
they And in the flelds and on the hedges ; it was only from a 
sort of fear that it was too good fortune for her, and that 
there must be something evanescent about it — wings some- 
where. Or perhaps she vaguely fancied there must be some 
unfathomable design in it, awful and inscrutable, and there- 
fore glanced around her once more — this time all but surpris- 
ing the tailor, with uplifted head and the eager eyes of a 
fowler. But the temptation soon overcame any suspicion 
she might have. She made one bound upon the prize, and 
scudded as she had never scudded before. Mr. Spelt ran his 
needle in under the nail of his left thumb, and so overcame 
his delight in time to save his senses. 

And now came a part of the design which Mr. Spelt regarded 
as a very triumph of cunning invention. That evening he 
drove two tiny staples of wire — one into Mr. Dolman’s door- 
post close to the ground ; the other into his own. The next 
morning, as soon as he arrived, he chose a thread as near the 
color of the flag-stones that paved the passage as he could And, 
fastened one end with a plug of toffee into a hole he bored 
with his scissors in another splendor of rock, laid the bait in 


Fishing for a Daughter, 167 

the usual place, drew the long thread through the two eyes ot 
the staples, and sat down in his lair with the end attached to 
the little finger of his left hand. 

The time arrived about which Poppie usually appeared. 
Mr. Spelt got anxious — nervously anxious. She was later than 
usual, and he almost despaired ; but at length, there she was, 
peeping caiitiously round the corner toward the trap. She 
saw the bait — was now so accustomed to it that she saw it 
almost without surprise. She had begun to regard it as most 
people regard the operations of nature — namely, as that which 
always was so and always will be so, and therefore has no 
reason in it at all. But this time a variety in the phenomenon 
shook the couch of habitude upon which her mind was settling 
itself in regard to the saccharine bowlders ; for, just as she 
stooped to snatch it to herself and make it her own, away it 
went as if in terror of her approaching fingers — ^but only to 
the distance of half a yard or so. Eager as the tailor was — 
far more eager to catch Poppie than Poppie was to catch the 
lollypop — he could scarcely keep his countenance when he saw 
the blank astonishment that came over Poppie’s pretty brown 
face. Certainly she had never seen a living lollypop, yet mo- 
tion is a chief sign of life, and the lollypop certainly moved. 
Perhaps it would have been wiser to doubt her senses first, but 
Poppie had never yet found her senses in the wrong, and 
therefore had not learned to doubt them. Had she been a 
child of weak nerves, she might have recoiled for a moment 
from a second attempt, but instead of that she pounced upon 
it again so suddenly that the Archimago of the plot was 
unprepared. He gave his string a tug only just as she seized 
it, and, fortunately, the string came out of the plugged hole. 
Poppie held the bait, and the fisherman drew in his line as 
fast as possible, that his fish might not see it. 

The motions of Poppie’s mind were as impossible to analyze 
as those of a field-mouse or hedge-sparrow. This time she 
began at once to gnaw the sugar, staring about her as she did 
so, and apparently in no hurry to go. Possibly she was men- 
tally stunned by the marvel of the phenomenon, but I do not 
think so. Poppie never could be much surprised at anything. 
Why should anything be surprising ? To such a child every- 
thing was interesting — nothing overwhelming. She seemed 
constantly shielded by the divine buckler of her own exposure 
and helplessness. You could have thought that God had said to 
her, as to his people of old, ^‘Fear not thou, 0 Poppie,” and 
therefore Poppie did not fear, and found it answer. It is a 


168 


Guild Court 


terrible doctrine that would confine the tender care of the 
Father to those that know and acknowledge it. He carries 
the lambs in his bosom, and who shall say when they cease to 
be innocent lambs and become naughty sheep ? Even then he 
goes into the mountains, and searches till he finds. 

Hot yet would the father aspirant show his craft. When he 
saw her stand there gnawing his innocent bait, he was sorely 
tempted to call, in the gentlest voice, Poppie, dear ; ” but, 
like a fearful and wise lover, who dreads startling the maiden 
he loves, he must yet dig his parallels and approach with guile. 
He would even refine upon his own cunning. The next morn- 
ing his bait had only a moral hook inside, that is, there was no 
string attached. But now that happened which he had all 
along feared. A child of the court— in which there were not 
more than two, I think — whom Mr. Spelt regarded, of course, 
as a stray interloper, for had she not enough of the good things 
already ? — spied the sweetmeat, and following the impulses of 
her depraved humanity, gobbled it uj) without ever saying, 
like heathen Cassius, “ By your leave, gods.” Presently after 
Poppie appeared, looked, stared — actually astonished now — 
and, with fallen face, turned and went away. Whether sho 
or her cunning enemy overhead was the more disappointed, I 
will not venture to determine, but Mr. Spelt could almost 
have cried. Four-and-twenty long tedious hours of needle 
and thread must pass before another chance would arrive — 
and the water so favorable, with the wind from the right 
quarter just clouding its surface, and the fly so taking ! — it 
was hard to bear. He comforted himself, however, by falling 
back upon a kind of divine fatalism with which God had 
endowed him, saying to himself, ‘‘Well, it’s all for the best,” 
— a phrase not by any means uncommon among people de- 
voutly inclined ; only there was this difierence between most 
of us and Mr. Spelt, that we follow the special aphorism with 
a sigh, while he invariably smiled and brightened up for the 
next thing he had to do. To say things are all right and yet 
gloom does seem rather illogical in you and me, reader, does it 
not ? Logical or illogical, it was not Spelt’s way anyhow. He 
began to whistle, which he never did save upon such occasions 
when the faithful part of him set itself to conquer the faith- 
less. 

But he would try the bait without the line once more. Am 
I wearying my reader with the process ? I would not will- 
ingly do so, of course. But I fancy he would listen to this 
much about a salmon any day, so I will go on with my child. 


Mr, Fuller, 


169 


Poppio came the next morning, notwithstanding her last dis- 
appointment, found the bulFs-eye, for such I think it was this 
time, took it, and sucked it to nothing upon the spot — did it 
leisurely, and kept looking about — let us hope for Lucy, and 
that Poppie considered a kiss a lovelier thing still than a lolly- 
pop. 

The next morning Mr. Spelt tried the string again, watched 
it better, and by a succession of jerks, not slow movements, 
lest, notwithstanding the cunning of the color, she should see 
the string, drew her step by step in the eagerness of wonder, as 
well as of that appetite which is neither hunger nor thirst, 
and yet concerned with the same organs, but for which we 
have, so far as I am aware, no word, I mean the love of sweets, 
to the very foot of his eyrie. When she laid hold of the object 
desired at the door-post, ho released it by a final tug against 
the eye of the staple. Before she could look up from securing 
it, another lump of rock fell at her feet. Then she did look 
up, and saw the smiling face of the tailor looking out (once 
more like an angel over a cloudy beam) over the tlireshold, if 
threshold it could properly bo called, of his elevated and stair- 
less door. She gave back a genuine whole-faced smile, and 
turned and scudded. The tailor’s right hand shuttled with 
increased vigor all the rest of that day. 


CHAPTEE XXV. 

MR. FULLER. 

Oke evening Lucy was sitting as usual with Mattie, for the 
child had no friends but her and grannie ; her only near rela- 
tive was a widowed sister of her father, whom she did not like. 
She was scarcely so well as she had been for the last few days, 
and had therefore gone early to bed, and Lucy sat beside her 
to comfort her. By this time she had got the room quite trans- 
formed in appearance— all the books out of it, a nice clean 
paper up on the walls, a few colored prints from the Illustra- 
ted London News here and there, and, in fact, the whole made 
fit for the abode of a delicate and sensitive child. 

‘^What shall I read to-night, Mattie?” she asked. For 
Mattie must always have something read to her out of the New 


170 Guild Court 

Testament before she went to sleep ; Mr. Spelt bad inaugura- 
ted the custom. 

Oh, read about the man that sat in his Sunday clothes/’ 
said Mattie. 

don’t know that story,” returned Lucy. 

I wish dear mother was here,” said Mattie, with the pet- 
tishness of an invalid. “ He would know what story I mean — 
that he would.” 

Would you like to see Mr. Spelt ? ” suggested Lucy. He 
was asking about you not an hour ago.” 

Why didn’t he come up, then ? I wonder he never comes 
to see me.” 

was afraid you weren’t strong enough for it, Mattie. 
But I will run and fetch him now, if he’s not gone. ” 

Oh, yes ; do, please. I know he’s not gone, fori have not 
heard his step yet. I always watch him out of the court when 
I’m in bed. He goes right under me.” 

Lucy went, and Mr. Spelt came gladly. 

Well, mother,” said Mattie, holding out a worn little cloud 
of a hand, how do you do ? ” 

Mr. Spelt could hardly answer for emotion. He took the 
little hand in his, and it seemed to melt away in his grasp, till 
he could hardly feel it. 

Don’t cry, mother. I am very happy. I do believe I’ve seen 
the last of old Syne. I feel just like the man that had got his 
Sunday clothes on, you know. You see what a pretty room 
Miss Burton has made, instead of all those ugly books that 
Syne was so fond of : well, my poor head feels just like this 
room, and I’m ready to listen to anything about Somebody. 
Bead about the man in his Sunday clothes^” 

But Mr. Spelt, no less than Lucy, was puzzled as to what 
the child meant. 

‘‘ I wish that good clergyman that talked about Somebody’s 
burden being easy to carry, would come and see me,” she said. 

I know he would tell me the story. He knows all about 
Somebody.” 

Shall I ask Mr. Potter to come and see you ? ” said Spelt, 
who had never heard of Mr. Fuller by name, or indeed any- 
thing about him, but what Mattie had told him before she was 
taken ill. 

I don’t mean Mr. Potter — you know well enough. He’s 
always pottering,” said the child, with a laugh. 

She had not yet learned to give honor where honor is not 
due ; or, rather, she had never been young enough to take 





THE LITTLE TAILOR WAS VERY SHY OF READING BEFORE LUCY. 






ilfr. Fuller, 


171 


seeming for being, or place for character. The consequence 
was that her manners and her modesty had suffered — not her 
reverence or her heart. 

I want to see the gentleman that really thinks it’s all 
about something,” she resumed. ^‘Do you know where he 
lives. Miss Burton ? ” 

‘‘No,” answered Lucy, “but I will find out to-morrow, and 
ask him to come and see you.” 

“ Well, that will be nice,” returned Mattie. “ Bead to me, 
Mr Spelt — anything you like. ” 

The little tailor was very shy of reading before Lucy, but 
Mattie would hear of nothing else, for she would neither allow 
Lucy to read, nor yet to go away. 

“ Don’t mind me, Mr. Spelt,” said Lucy, beseechingly. “We 
are all friends, you know. If we belong to the Somebody Mat- 
tie speaks about we needn’t be shy of each other.” 

Thus encouraged, Mr. Spelt could refuse no longer. He 
read about the daughter of J airus being made alive again. 

“Oh, dear me !” said Mattie. “And if I had gone dead 
when S3me was tormenting of me. He could have come into 
the room, and taken me by the hand and said, ‘ Daughter, get 
up.’ How strange it would be if He said, ‘Daughter’ to me, 
for then He would be my father, you know. And they say 
He’s a king. I wonder if that’s why Mr. Kitely calls me prin~ 
cess. To have Mr. Kitely and Somebody,” she went on mus- 
ingly, “both for fathers is more than I can understand. 
There’s sometliing about godfathers and godmothers in the 
Catechism, ain’t there. Miss Burton ? ” Then, without, wait- 
ing for a reply, she went on, “ I wish my father would go and 
hear what that nice gentleman — not Mr. Potter — has got to 
say about it. Miss Burton, read the hymn about blind Barti- 
meus, and that’ll do mother good, and then I’ll goto sleep.” 

The next day, after she came from the Morgenstcrns’, Lucy 
went to find Mr. Fuller. She had been to the week-evening 
service twice since Mattie began to recover, but she had no 
idea where Mr. Fuller lived, and the only way she could think 
of for finding him was to ask at the warehouses about the 
church. She tried one after another, but nobody even knew 
that there was any service there — not to say where the evening 
preacher lived. With its closed, tomb-like doors, and the 
utter ignorance of its concerns manifested by the people of the 
neighborhood, the great ugly building stood like some mauso- 
leum built in honor of a custom buried beneath it, a monu- 
ment of the time when men could buy and sell and worship 


172 


Guild Court 


God. So Lucy put off further inquiry till the next week- 
evening service, for she had found already that Mr. Fuller 
had nothing to do with the Sunday services in that church. 

How she wished that she could take Thomas with her the 
next time she went to receive Mr. Fuller’s teaching ! She had 
seen very little of Thomas, as I have said, and had been so 
much occupied with Mattie, that she did not even know 
whether he had fulfilled his promise about telling his father. 
I suspect, however, that she had been afraid to ask him, fore- 
boding the truth that he had in fact let his promise lapse in 
time, and was yet no nearer toward its half redemption in act, 
which was all that remained possible now. And, alas ! what 
likelihood was there of the good seed taking good root in a 
heart where there was so little earth ? 

Finding Mr. Kitely in his shop door, Lucy stopped to ask 
after Mattie, for she had not seen her that morning. And 
then she told him what she had been about, and her want of 
success. 

What does the child want a clergyman for ? ” asked Mr. 
Kitely, with some tone of dissatisfaction. Im sure you’re 
better than the whole lot of them, miss. Now I could listen 
to you — ” 

How do you know that ? ” retorted Lucy, smiling ; for 
she wanted to stop the eulogium upon herself. 

Because I’ve listened to you outside the door. Miss Burton, 
when you was a-talking to Mattie inside.” 

That wasn’t fair, Mr. Kitely.” 

^^No more it wasn’t, but it’s done me no harm, nor you 
neither. But for them parsons ! — they’re neither men nor 
women. I beg their pardons — they are old wives. ” 

But are you sure that you know quite what you are talking 
about ? I think there must be all sorts of them as well as of 
other people. I wish you would come and hear Mr. Fuller 
some evening with Mattie and me when she’s better. You 
would allow that he talks sense, anyhow.” 

"" I ain’t over hopeful, miss. And to tell the truth, I don’t 
much care. I don’t think there can be much in it. It’s 
all an affair of the priests. To get the upper hand of people 
they work on their fears and their superstitions. But I don’t 
doubt some of them may succeed in taking themselves in, and 
so go on like the fox that had lost his tail, trying to make 
others cut off theirs too.” 

Lucy did not reply, because she had nothing at hand to say. 
The bookseller feared he had hurt her. 


Mr. Fuller, 


173 


And so yon couldn’t find this Mr. Fuller ? Well, you 
leave it to me. I’ll find him, and let you know in the after- 
noon.” 

Thank you, Mr. Kitely. Just tell Mattie, will you ? I 
must run home now, but I’ll come in in the afternoon to hear 
how you have succeeded.” 

About six o’clock, Lucy reentered Mr. Kitely’s shop, re- 
ceived the necessary directions to find the ‘^parson,” ran up 
to tell Mattie -that she was going, for the child had not come 
down stairs, and then set out. 

To succeed she had to attend to Mr. Kitely’s rather minute 
instructions ; for although the parsonage lay upon the hank 
of one of the main torrents of city traffic, it was withdrawn 
and hidden behind shops .and among offices, taverns, and 
warehouses. After missing the most direct way, she arrived 
at last, through lanes and courts, much to her surprise, at the 
border of a green lawn on the opposite side of which rose a tree 
that spread fair branches across a blue sky filled with pearly 
light, and blotted here and there with spongy clouds that had 
filled themselves as full of light as they could hold. The 
other half of the branches of the same tree spread themselves 
across the inside of a gable, all that remained of a tavern that 
was being pulled down. The gable was variegated with the 
incongruous papers of many small rooms, and marked with 
the courses of stairs and the holes for the joints of the floors ; 
and this dreariness was the background for the leaves of the 
solitary tree. On the same side was the parsonage, a long, 
rather low, and country-looking house, from the door of which 
Lucy would not have been surprised to see a troop of children 
burst with shouts and laughter, to tumble each other about 
upon the lawn, as smooth, at least, if not as green, as any of 
the most velvety of its kind. One side of the square was 
formed by a vague, commonplace mass of dirty and expression- 
less London houses— what they might be used for no one 
could tell — one of them, probably, an eating-house— mere 
walls with holes to let in the little light that was to be had. 
The other side was of much the same character, only a little 
better ; and the remaining side was formed by the long barn- 
like wall of the church, broken at regular intervals by the 
ugly windows, with their straight sides filled with parallelo- 
grams, and their half-circle heads filled with trapeziums— the 
ugliest window that can be made, except it be redeemed with 
stained glass, the window that makes the whole grand stretch 
of St. Paul’s absolutely a pain. The church was built of 


174 


Guild Court 


brick, nearly black below, but retaining in the upper part of 
the square tower something of its original red. All this Lucy 
took in at a glance as she went up to the door of the parson- 
age. 

She was shown into a small study, where Mr. Fuller sat. 
She told him her name, that she had been to his week-evening 
service with Mattie, and that the child was ill and wanted to 
see him. 

Thank you very much,” said Mr. Fuller. ^^Some of the 
city clergymen have so little opportunity of being useful ! I 
am truly grateful to you for coming to me. A child in my 
parish is quite a godsend to me — I do not use the word irrev- 
erently — I mean it. You lighten my labor by the news. Per- 
haps i ought to say I am sorry she is ill. 1 dare say I shall 
be sorry when I see her. But meantime, I am very glad to be 
useful.” 

He promised to call the next day ; and, after a little more 
talk, Lucy took her leave. 

Mr. Fuller was a middle-aged man, who all his conscious 
years had been trying to get nearer to his brethren, moved 
thereto by the love he bore to the Father. The more anxious 
he was to come near to God, the more he felt that the high- 
road to God lay through the forest of humanity. And ho had 
learned that love is not a feeling to be called up at will in the 
heart, but the reward as the result of an active exercise of the 
pri’vuleges of a neighbor. 

Like the poor parson loved of Chaucer, he waited after no 
pomp ne reverence ; ” and there was no chance of preferment 
coming in search of him. He was only a curate still. But 
the incumbent of St. Amos, an old man, with a grovm-up 
family, almost unfit for duty, and greatly preferring his little 
estate in Kent to the city parsonage, left everything to him, 
with much the same confidence he would have had if Mr. 
Fuller had been exactly the opposite of what he was, j)aying 
him enough to live ujDon — ^indeed, paying him well for a curate. 
It was not enough to marry upon, as the phrase is, but Mr. 
Fuller did not mind that, for the only lady he had loved, or 
ever would love in that way, was dead ; and all his thoughts 
for this life were bent upon such realizing of divine theory 
about human beings, and their relation to God and to each 
other, as might make life a truth and a gladness. It was 
therefore painful to him to think that he was but a city 
curate, a being whose thirst after the relations of his calling 
among his fellows reminded himself of that of the becalmed 


Mr, Fuller, 


175 


mariner, with water, water everywhere, but water none to 
drink.” He seemed to have nothing to do with them, nor 
they with him. Perhaps not one individual of the crowds 
that passed his church every hour in the week would he within 
miles of it on the Sunday ; for even of those few who resided 
near it, most forsook the place on the day of rest, especially in 
the summer ; and few indeed were the souls to whom he could 
offer the bread of life. Ho seemed to himself to be greatly 
overpaid for the work he had it in his power to do — in his own 
parish, that is. He had not even any poor to minister to. 
He made up for this by doing his best to help the clergyman 
of a neighboring iDarish, who had none but poor ; but his heart 
at times burned within him to speak the words he loved best 
to speak to such as he could hope had the ears to hear them ; 
for among the twelve people — a congregation ho did not always 
have — that he said he preferred to the thousand, he could 
sometimes hardly believe that there was one who heard and 
understood. More of his reflections and resolutions, in regard 
to this state of affairs, wo shall fall in with by and by. Mean- 
time, my reader will believe that this visit of Lucy gave him 
pleasure and hope of usefulness. The next morning he was in 
Mr. Kitely’s shop as early as he thought the little invalid would 
be able to see him. 

^^Good-morning, sir,” said Mr. Kitely, brusquely. ^^What 
can I do for you this morning ?” 

If Mr. Fuller had begun looking at his books, Kitely would 
have taken no notice of him. He might have stayed hours, 
and the bookseller would never have even put a book in his 
way ; but ho looked as if ho wanted something in particular, 
and therefore Mr. Kitely spoke. 

You have a little girl that’s not well, haven’t you ?” re- 
turned Mr. Fuller. 

Oh ! you’re the gentleman she wanted to see. She’s been 
asking ever so often whether you wasn’t come yet. She’s quite 
impatient to see you, poor lamb ! ” 

While he spoke, Kitely had drawn nearer to the curate, 
regarding him with projecting and slightly flushed face, and 
eyes that had even something of eagerness in them. 

^‘1 would have come earlier, only I thought it would be 
better not,” said Mr, Fuller. 

Mr. Kitely drew yet a step nearer, with the same expression 
on his face. 

You won’t put any nonsense into her head, will you, sir ?” 
he said, almost pleadingly. 


176 


Guild Court 


‘■^Not if I know it,” answered Mr. Fuller, with a smile of 
kind humor. ‘‘I would rather take some out of it.” 

‘‘For you see,” Kitely went on, “that child never com- 
mitted a sin in her life. It’s all nonsense ; and I won’t have 
her talked to as if she was a little hell-cat.” 

“But you see we must go partly by what she thinks herseK ; 
and I suspect she won’t say she never did anything wrong. 
I don’t think I ever knew a child that would. But, 
after all suppose you are right, and she never did anything, 
wrong — ” 

“ I don’t exactly say that, you know,” interposed Mr. Kitely, 
in a tone of mingled candor and defense. “I only said she 
hadn’t committed any sins. ” 

“And where’s the difference ?” asked Mr. Fuller, quietly. 

“ Oh ! you know quite well. Doing wrong, you know — 
why, we all do wrong sometimes. But to commit a sin, you 
know — I suppose that’s something serious. That comes in the 
way of the Ten Commandments.” 

“I don’t think your little girl would know the difference.” 

“ But what’s the use of referring to her always ? ” 

“Just because I think she’s very likely to know best. Chil- 
dren are wise in the affairs of their own kingdom.” 

“Well, I believe you’re right ; for she is the strangest child 
I ever saw. She knows more than any one would think for. 
Walk this way, sir. You’ll find her in the back room.” 

“Won’t you come, too, and see that I don’t put any non- 
sense into her head ? ” 

“I must mind the shop, sir,” objected Kitely, seeming a 
little ashamed of what ho had said. 

Mr. Fuller nodded content, and was passing on, when he 
bethought himself, and stopped. 

“ Oh, Mr. Kitely,” he said, “there was just one thing I was 
going to say, but omitted. It was only this : that suppose you 
were right about your little girl, or suppose even that she had 
never done anything wrong at all, she would want God all the 
same. And we must help each other to find Him.” 

If Mr. Kitely had any reply ready for this remark, which 
I doubt, Mr. Fuller did not give him time to make it, for he 
walked at once into the room, and found Mattie sitting alone 
in a half twilight, for the day was cloudy. Even the birds 
were oppressed, for not one of them was singing. A thrush 
hopped drearily about under his load of speckles, and a rose- 
ringed paroquet, with a very red nose, looked ashamed of the 
quantity of port-wine he had drunk. The child was reading 


Mr, FuUer, 177 

the same little old book mentioned before. She laid it down, 
and rose from the window-sill to meet Mr. Fuller. 

Well, bow do you do, sir she said. am glad you 
are come.’’ 

Any other child of her age Mr. Fuller would have kissed, 
but there was something about Mattie that made him feel it 
an unfit proceeding. He shook hands with her and offered 
her a white camellia. 

Thank you, sir,” said Mattie, and laid the little transfig- 
uration upon the table. 

‘‘Don’t you like flowers ?” asked Mr. Fuller, somewhat dis- 
appointed. “ Isn’t it beautiful now ? ” 

“Well, where’s the good ?” answered and asked Mattie, as 
if she had been a Scotchwoman. “It will be ugly before to- 
morrow.” 

“ Oh, no ; not if you put it in water directly.” 

“ Will it live forever, then ? ” asked Mattie. 

“Ho, only a few days.” 

“Well, where’s the odds, then ? To-morrow or next week 
— where’s the difference ? It loohs dead now when you know 
it’s dying.” 

“Ah!” thought Mr. Fuller, “I’ve got something hero 
worth looking into.” What he said was, “You dear child 1 ” 

“You don’t know me yet,” returned Mattie. “I’m not 
dear at all. “I’m cross and ill-natured. And I won’t be 
petted.” 

“You like the birds, though, don’t you ?” said Mr. Fuller. 

“Well, yes. Mr. Kitely likes them, and I always like what 
he likes. But they are not quite comfortable, you know. 
They won’t last forever, you know. One of them is dead since 
I was taken ill. And father meant it for Miss Burton.” 

“ Do you like Miss Burton, then ? ” 

“ Yes, I do. But she’ll live forever, you know. I’ll tell 
you something else I like.” 

“ What is that, my child ?” 

“ Oh, I’m no such a child ! But I’ll tell you what I like. 
There.” 

And she held out the aged little volume, open at the hymn 
about blind Bartimeus. 

“ Will this live forever, then ? ” he asked, turning the vol- 
ume over in his hand, so that its withered condition suggested 
itself at once to Mattie. 

“How you puzzle me,” answered Mattie. “But let me 
think. You know it’s not the book I mean ; it’s the poem. 

12 


178 


Guild Court, 


N'ow I have it. If I know that poem by heart, and I live for- 
ever, then the poem will live forever. There ! ” 

Then the book’s the body, and the poem the sonl,” said 
Mr. Fnller. 

One of the sonls ; for some things have many souls. I 
have two, at least.” 

Mr. Fuller felt instinctively, with the big forehead and the 
tiny body of the child before him, that they were getting on 
rather dangerous ground. But he must answer. 

Two souls ! That must be something like what King 
David felt, when he asked God to join his heart into one. 
But do you like this poem ? ” he hastened to add. “ May I 
read it to you ? ” 

Oh, yes ; please do. I am never tired of hearing it. It 
will sound quite new if you read it.” 

So Mr. Fuller read slowly — ^^As Jesus went into Jericho 
town.” And from the way Mattie listened, he knew what he 
must bring her next — not a camellia, but a poem. Still, how 
sad it was that a little child should not love flowers ! 

When were you in the country last. Miss Kitely ? ” 

I never was in the country that I know of. My name is 

Wouldn’t you like to go, Mattie ? ” 

Ko I shouldn’t — not at all.” 

^^Why?” 

Well, because — ^because it’s not in my way, you see.” 

^‘But surely you have some reason for not liking the 
country.” 

“ Well, now, I will tell you. The country, by all I can hear, 
is full of things that die, and I don’t like that. And I think 
people can’t be nice that like the country.” 

Mr. Fuller resolved in his heart that he would make Mattie 
like the country before he had done with her. But he would 
say no more now, because he Avas not sure whether Mattie 
as yet regarded him with a friendly eye ; and he must be a 
friend before he could speak about religion. He rose, there- 
fore, and held out his hand. 

Mattie looked at him with dismay. 

But I wanted you to tell me about the man that sat at 
Somebody’s feet in his Sunday clothes.” 

Happily for his further influence with her, Mr. Fuller 
guessed at once whom she meant, and taking a Kew Testa- 
ment from his pocket, read to her about the demoniac, Vfho 
sat at the feet of Jesus, clothed, and in his right mind. He 


Mr, Fuller, 


179 


had not known her long before he discoyered that all these 
stories of possession had an especial attraction for Mattie — she 
evidently associated them with her own visions of Syne and 
his men. 

Well, I was wrong. It wasn’t his Sunday clothes,” she 
said. Or, perhaps, it was, and he had torn the rest all to 
pieces.” 

Yes ; I think that’s very likely,” responded Mr. Fuller. 

I know — it was Syne that told him, and he did it. But 
he wouldn’t do it any more, would he, after he saw Some- 
body ?” 

‘‘ I don’t think he would,” answered Mr. Fuller, under- 
standing her just enough to know the right answer to make. 
‘‘ But I will come and see you again to-morrow,” he added, 
and try whether I can’t bring something with me that you 
will like.” 

“ Thank you,” answered the old-fashioned creature. But 
don’t be putting yourself to any expense about it, for I am not 
easy to please.” And she lifted her hand to her head and 

f ave a deep sigh, as if it was a very sad faet indeed. I wish 
was easier to please,” she added, to herself ; but Mr. Fuller 
heard her as he left the room. 

She’s a very remarkable child that, Mr. Kitely — too much 
so, I fear,” he said, reentering the shop. 

^‘1 know that,” returned the bookseller, curtly, almost 
angrily. wish she wasn’t.” 

beg your pardon. I only wanted — ” 

No occasion at all,” interrupted Mr. Kitely. 

I only wanted,” Mr. Fuller persisted, “ to ask you whether 
you do not think she had better go out of town for a while.” 

I dare say. But how am I to send her ? The child has 
not a relation but me — and an aunt that she can’t a-bear ; and 
that wouldn’t do — would it, sir ? She would fret herself to 
death without someone she cared about.” 

Certainly it wouldn’t do. But mightn’t Miss— I forget 
her name — ” 

Miss Burton, I dare say you mean.” 

I mean Miss Burton. Couldn’t she help you ? Is she 
any relation of yours ? ” 

None whatever. Nor she’s not like it. I believe she’s 
a stray, myself.” 

What do you mean, Mr. Kitely ? ” asked Mr. Fuller, quite 
bewildered now. 

Well, sir, I mean that she’s a stray angel, answered Mr. 


180 


Guild Court. 


Kitely, smiling ; for she ain’t like anyone else I know of 
but that child’s mother, and she’s gone hack to where she 
came from — many’s the long year.” 

don’t wonder at your thinking that of her if she’s as 
good as she looks,” returned Mr. Fuller. And bidding the 
bookseller good-morning, he left the shop and walked home, 
cogitating how the child could be got into the country.^ 

Next morning he called — earlier, and saw Lucy leaving the 
court just as he was going into the shop. He turned and 
spoke to her. 

Fancy a child, Miss Burton,” he said, ^^that does not 
care about flowers — and her heart full of religion too ! How 
is she to consider the lilies of the field ? She knows only birds 
in cages ; she has no idea of the birds of the air. The poor 
child has to lift everything out of that deep soul of hers, and 
the buckets of her brain can’t stand such hard work.” 

I know, I know,” answered Lucy. But what can I do ? ” 
‘^Besides,” Mr. Fuller continued, ^^what notion of the sim- 
ple grandeur of God can she have when she never had more 
than a peep of the sky from between these wretched houses ? 
How can the heavens declare the glory of God to her ? You 
don’t suppose David understood astronomy, and that it was 
from a scientific point of view that he spoke, when he said 
that the firmament showed his handiwork ? That was all he 
could say about it, for the Jewish nation was net yet able to 
produce a Buskin. But it was, nevertheless, the spiritual 
power of the sky upon his soul — not the stars in their courses, 
but the stars up there in their reposeful depth of blue, their 
^ shining nest ’• — which, whatever theory of their construction 
he might have, yet impressed him with an awe, an infinitude, 
a shrinking and yet aspiring — made his heart swell within him, 
and sent him down on his knees. This little darling knows 
nothing of such an experience. We must get her into the 
open. She must love the wind that bloweth where it listeth, 
and the clouds that change and pass. She can’t even like 
anything that does not last forever ; and the mind needs a 
perishing bread sometimes as well as the body — though it 
never perishes when once made use of, as Mattie told me yes- 
terday. But I beg your pardon ; I am preaching a sermon, I 
think. What a thing it is to have the faults of a profession in 
addition to those of humanity ! It all comes to this — ^you 
must get that child, with her big head and her big conscience, 
out of London, and give her heart a chance.” 

‘Hndeed, I wish I could,” answered Lucy. will do 


Mr, Fuller, 181 

what I can, and let you know. Are you going to see her now, 
Mr. Fuller?” 

‘^Yes, I am. I took her a flower yesterday, but I have 
brought her a poem to-day. I am afraid, however, that it is 
not quite the thing for her. I thought I could easily And her 
one till I began to try, and then I found it very difficult 
indeed.” 

They parted — Lucy to Mrs. Morgenstern’s, Mr. Fuller to 
Mattie. 

I will give the hymn — for the sake, in part, of what Mattie 
said, and then I will close the chapter. 

“ Come unto me,” the Master says. 

But how ? I am not good ; 

No thankful song my heart will raise, 

Nor even wish it could. 

I am not sorry for the past. 

Nor able not to sin ; 

The weary strife would ever last 
If once I should begin. 

Hast thou no burden then to bear ? 

No action to repent ? 

Is aU around so very fair ? 

Is thy heart quite content ? 

Hast thou no sickness in thy soul ? 

No labor to endure ? 

Then go in peace, for thou art whole. 

Thou needest not His cure. 

Ah ! mock me not. Sometimes I sigh ; 

I have a nameless grief, 

A faint, sad pain — but such that I 
Can look for no relief. 

Come then to Him who made thy heart ; 

Come in thyself distrest ; 

To come to Jesus is thy part. 

His part to give thee rest. 

New grief, new hope He will bestow, 

Thy grief and pain to quell ; 

Into thy heart Himself will go. 

And that will make thee well. 


When Mr. Fuller had finished the hymn, he closed the book 
and looked toward Mattie. She responded— with a sigh— 


182 


Guild Court, 


I think I know what it means. You See I hare 
such a big head, and so many things come and go just as they 
please, tliat if it weren’t for Somebody I don’t know what I 
should do with them all. But as soon as I think about Him, 
they grow quieter and behave better. But I don’t know all 
that it means. Will you lend me the book, Mr. Fuller ? ” 

All the child’s thoughts took shapes, and so she talked like 
a lunatic. Still, as all the forms to which she gave an ob- 
jective existence were the embodiments of spiritual realities, 
she could not be said to have yet passed the narrow line that 
divides the poet from the maniac. But it was high time that 
the subjects of her thoughts should be supplied from without, 
and that the generating power should lie dormant for a while. 
And the opportunity for this arrived sooner than her friends 
had expected. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE KINGPO IS LOST. 

Lucy was so full of Mattie and what Mr. Fuller had said 
that she told Mrs. Morgenstern all about it before Miriam had 
her lesson. After the lesson was over, Mrs. Morgenstern, who 
had, contrary to her custom, remained in the room ail the 
time, said : 

Well, Lucy, I have been thinking about it, and I think I 
have arranged it all very nicely. It’s clear to me that the 
child will go out of her mind if she goes on as she’s doing. 
Now, I don’t think Miriam has been quite so well as usual, 
and she has not been out of London since last August. 
Couldn’t you take her down to St. Leonard’s — or I dare say 
you would like Hastings better ? You can go on with your 
lessons there all the same, and take little Mattie with you.” 

‘^But what will become of my grandmother ? ” said Lucy. 

She can go with you, can’t she ? I could ask her to go 
and take care of you. It would be much better for you to 
have her, and it makes very little difference to me, you know.” 

Thank you very much,” returned Lucy, ‘‘but I fear my 
grandmother will not consent to it. I will try her, however, 
and see what can be done. Thank you a thousand times, dear 


Tim Nincjpo is Lost 183 

Mrs. Morgenstern. Wouldn’t you like to go to Hastings, 
Miriam?” 

Miriam was delighted at the thought of it, and Lucy was 
not without hopes that if her grandmother would not consent 
to go herself, she would at least wish her to go. Leaving 
Mattie out of view, she would he glad to be away from Thomas 
for a while, for, until he had done as he ought, she could not 
feel happy in his presence ; and she made up her mind that 
she would write to him very plainly when she was away — per- 
haps tell him positively that if he would not end it, she must. 
I say perhaps, for ever as she approached the resolution, the 
idea of the poor lad’s helpless desertion arose before her, and 
she recoiled from abandoning him. Nothing more could be 
determined, however, until she saw her grandmother. 

But as she was going out she met Mr. Sargent in the hall. 
He had come to see her. 

This very morning the last breath of the crew and passen- 
gers of the Ningpo had bubbled up in the newspapers ; and all 
the world who cared to know it knew the fact, that the vessel 
had been dashed to pieces upon a rock of the Cape Verde Isl- 
ands ; all hands and passengers supposed to be lost. This the 
underwriters knew but a few hours before. Now it was known 
to Mr. Stopper and Mr. Worboise, both of whom it concerned 
even more than the underwriters, Mr. Stopper’s first feeling 
was one of dismay, for the articles of partnership had not been 
completed before" Mr. Boxall sailed. Still, as he was the only 
person who understood the business, he trusted in any case to 
make his position good, especially if he was right in imagining 
that old Mrs. Boxall must now oe heir-at-law — a supposition 
which he scarcely allowed himself to doubt. Here, however, 
occurred the thought of Thomas. He had influence there, 
and that influence would be against him, for had he not in- 
insulted him ? This he could not help yet. He would wait 
for what might turn up. 

What Mr. Worboise’s feelings were when first he read the 
paragraph in the paper I do not know, nor whether he had not 
an emotion of justice, and an inclination to share the property 
with Mrs. Boxall. But I doubt whether he very clearly rec- 
ognized the existence of his friend’s mother. In his mind, 
probably, her subjective being was thinned by age, little re- 
gard, and dependence, into a thing of no account — a shadov/ 
of the non-Elysian sort, living only in the waste places of 
human disregard. He certainly knew nothing of her right to 
any property in the possession of her son. Of one of his feel- 


184 


Guild Court 


ings only am I sure : he became more ambitious for his son, 
in whom he had a considerable amount of the pride of pater- 
nity. 

Mrs. Boxall was the last to hear anything of the matter. 
She did not read the newspapers, and, accustomed to have 
sons at sea, had not even begun to look for news of the Ningpo, 

^^Ah, Miss Burton,” said Mr. Sargent, am just in time. 
I thought perhaps you would not be gone yet. Will you come 
into the garden with me for a few minutes ? I won’t keep 
you long.” 

Lucy hesitated. Mr. Sargent had of late, on several occa- 
sions, been more confidential in his manner than was quite 
pleasant to her, because, with the keenest dislike to false 
appearances, she yet could not take his attentions for granted, 
and tell him she was engaged to Thomas. He saw her hesita- 
tion, and hastened to remove it. 

I only want to ask you about a matter of business,” he 
said. assure you I won’t detain you.” 

Mr. Sargent knew something of Mr. Wither, who had very 
^‘good connections,” and was indeed a favorite in several pro- 
fessional circles ; and from him he had learned all about 
Lucy’s relations, without even alluding to Lucy herself, and 
that her uncle and whole family had sailed in the Ningpo, 
Anxious to do what he could for her, and fearful lest, in their 
unprotected condition, some advantage should be taken of the 
two women, he had made haste to offer his services to Lucy, 
not without a vague feeling that he ran great risk of putting 
himself in the false position of a fortune-hunter by doing so, 
and heartily abusing himself for not having made more definite 
advances before there was any danger of her becoming an heir- 
ess ; for although a fortune was a most desirable tiling in Mr. 
Sargent’s position, especially if he wished to marry, he was 
above marrying for money alone, and, in the case of Lucy, with 
whom he had fallen in love — just within his depth, it must be 
confessed — while she was as poor as himself, he was especially 
jealous of being unjustly supposed to be in pursuit of her pros- 
pects. Possibly the consciousness of what a help the fortune 
would be to him made him even more sensitive than he would 
otherwise have been. Still he would not omit the opportunity 
of being useful to the girl, trusting that his honesty would, 
despite of appearances, manifest itself sufficiently to be believed 
in by so honest a nature as Lucy Burton. 

^‘Have you heard the sad news ?” he said, as soon as they 
were in the garden. 


The Ningpo is Lost 185 

answered Lucy, without much concern ; for she did 
not expect to hear anytmng about Thomas. 

‘‘ I thought not. It is very sad. The Ningpo is lost.” 

Lucy was perplexed. She knew the name of her uncle’s 
vessel ; but for a moment she did not associate the thing. In 
a moment, however, something of the horror of the fact 
reached her. She did not cry, for her affections had no great 
part in anyone on board of the vessel, but she turned very 
pale. And not a thought of the possible interest she might 
have in the matter crossed her mind. She had never associ- 
ated good to herself with her uncle or any of his family. 

^^How dreadful!” she murmured. ‘‘My poor cousins I 
What they must all have gone through ! Are they come 
home ? ” 

“They are gone home,” said Mr. Sargent, significantly. 
“There can be but little doubt of that, I fear.” 

“You don’t mean they’re drowned ?” she said, turning her 
white face on him, and opening her eyes wide. 

“ It is not absolutely certain ; but there can be little doubt 
about it.” 

He did not show her the paragraph in the Times, though 
the paper was in his pocket : the particulars were too dread- 
ful. 

“ Are there any other relations but your grandmother and 
yourself ? ” he asked, for Lucy remained silent. 

“I don’t know of any,” she answered. 

“Then you must come in for the property.” 

“ Oh, no. He would never leave it to us. He didn’t like 
me, for one thing. But that was my fault, perhaps. He was 
not over-kind to my mother, and so I never liked him.” 

And here at length she burst into tears. She wept very 
quietly, however, and Mr. Sargent went on. 

“But you must be his heirs-at-law. Will you allow me to 
make inquiry — to do anything that may be necessary, for you ? 
Don’t misunderstand me,” he added, pleadingly. “ It is only 
as a friend — what I have been for a long time now, Lucy.” 

Lucy scarcely hesitated before she answered, with a restraint 
that appeared like coldness : 

“Thank you, Mr. Sargent. The business cannot in any 
case be mine. It is my grandmother’s, and I can, and will, take 
no hand in it.” 

“Will you say to your grandmother that I am at her ser- 

Vice?” . -r 

“ If it were a business matter, there is no one I would more 


186 


Guild Court. 


willingly — ^ask to help us ; but as you say it is a matter of 
friendship, I must refuse your kindness/^ 

Mr. Sargent was vexed with himself, and disappointed with 
her. He supposed that she misinterpreted his motives.^ Be- 
tween the two, he was driven to a sudden, unresolved action of 
appeal. 

^^Miss Burton,’’ he said, for God’s sake, do not misun- 
derstand me, and attribute to mercenary motives the offer I 
make only in the confidence that you will not do me such an 
injustice.” 

Lucy was greatly distressed. Her color went and came for 
a few moments, and then she spoke. 

^^Mr. Sargent, I am just as anxious that you should under- 
stand me ; but I am in a great difficulty and have to throw 
myself on your generosity.” 

She paused again, astonished to find herself making a 
speech. But she did not pause long. 

1 refuse your kindness,” she said, ^^only because I am not 
free to lay myself under such obligation to you. Do not ask 
me to say more,” she added, finding that he made no reply. 

But if she had looked in his face, she would have seen that 
he understood her perfectly. Honest disappointment and 
manly suffering were visible enough on his countenance. But 
he did not grow ashy pale, as some lovers would at such an 
utterance. He would never have made, under any circum- 
stances, a passionate lover, though an honest and true one ; for 
he was one of those balanced natures which are never all in one 
thing at once. Hence the very moment he received a shock, 
was the moment in which he began to struggle for victory. 
Something called to him, as Una to the Bed-Cross Knight 
when face to face with the serpent Error : 


“ Strangle her, else she sure will strangle thee.” 


Before Lucy’s eyes and his met, he had mastered his counten- 
ance at last. 

I understand you. Miss Burton,” he said, in a calm voice, 
which only trembled a little — and it was then that Lucy ven- 
tured to look at him — and I thank you. Please to remember 
that if ever you need a friend, I am at your service.” 

Without another word, he lifted his hat and went away. 

Lucy hastened homo full of distress at the thought of her 
grandmother’s grief, and thinking all the way how she could 


187 


Of Useful Odds and Ends, 

convey the news with least of a shock ; hut when she en- 
tered the room, she found her already in tears, and Mr. Stop* 
per seated by her side comforting her with commonplaces. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

OF USEFUL ODDS AKD ENDS. 

During all this time, when his visits to Lucy were so much 
interrupted by her attendance upon Mattie, Thomas had not 
been doing well. In fact, he had been doing gradually worse. 
His mother had, of course, been at home for a long time now, 
and Mr. Simon’s visits had been resumed. But neither of 
these circumstances tended to draw him homeward. 

Mrs. Worboise’s health was so much improved by her so- 
journ at Folkestone, that she now meditated more energetic 
measures for the conversion of her son. What these measures 
should be, hov,^ever, she could not for some time determine. At 
length she resolved that, as he had been a good scholar when at 
school — proved in her eyes by his having brought homo prizes 
every year — she would ask him to bring his Greek Testament 
to her room, and help her to read through St. Paul’s Epistle 
to the Romans Avith the fresh light which his scholarship would 
cast upon the page. It was not that she was in the least diffi- 
culty about the Apostle’s meaning. She knew that as well at 
least as the Apostle himself ; but she would invent an inno- 
cent trap to catch a soul with, and, if so it might be, put it 
in a safe cage, whose strong wires of exclusion should be wad- 
ded with the pleasant cotton of safety. Alas for St. Paul, his 
mighty soul, and his laboring speech, in the hands of two 
such ! The very idea of such to read him, might have scared 
him from his epistle — if such readers there could have been in a 
time when the v/ild beasts of the amphitheatre kept the Chris- 
tianity pure. 

Thomas, ” she said, one evening, “ I want you to bring 
your Greek Testament, and help mo out with something.” 

^^0, mother, I can’t. I have forgotten all about Greek. 
What is it you want to know ? ” 

I want you to read the Romans with me.” 


188 


Guild Court 


Oh ! really, mother, I can’t. It’s such bad Greek, you 
know.” 

‘‘ Thomas ! ” said his mother, sepulchrally, as if his hasty 
assertion with regard to St. Paul’s scholarship had been a sin 
against the truth St. Paul spoke. 

Well, really, mother, you must excuse me. I can’t. Why 
don’t you ask Mr. Simon ? He’s an Oxford man.” 

To this Mrs. Worboise had no answer immediately at hand. 
Prom the way in which Thomas met her request my reader 
will see that he was breaking loose from her authority — 
whether for the better or the worse does not at this point seem 
doubtful, and yet perhaps it w^as doubtful. Still he was not 
prepared to brave her and his father with a confession, for 
such it appeared to him to be, of his attachment to Lucy. 

Since he could see so little of her, he had spent almost all 
the time that used to be devoted to her with Molken. In conse- 
quence, he seldom reached home in anything like what he had 
been accustomed to consider decent time. When his mother 
spoke to him on the subject he shoved it aside with an ‘‘Ah ! 
you were in bed, mother,” prefacing some story, part true, part 
false, arranged for the occasion. So long as his father took 
no notice of the matter he did not much mind. He was afraid 
of him still ; but so long as he was out of bed early enough in 
the morning, his father did not much care at what hour he 
went to it : he had had his own wild oats to sow in his time. 
The purity of his boy’s mind and body did not trouble him 
much, provided that, v/hen he came to take his position in the 
machine of things, he turned out a steady, respectable pinion, 
whose cogs did not miss, but held — the one till the other 
caught. He had, however, grown ambitious for him within 
the last few days — more of which by and by. 

In the vacancy of mind occasioned by the loss of his visits 
to Lucy — for he had never entered heartily into any healthy 
pursuits in literature, art, or even amusement — Thomas had, 
as it were, gradually sauntered more and more into the power 
of Mr. Molken ; and although ho had vowed to himself, after 
his first experience, that he would never play again, himself 
not being to himself a very awe-inspiring authority, he had 
easily broken that vow. It was not that he had any very 
strong inclination to play — the demon of play had not quite 
entered into him : it was only that whatever lord asserted 
dominion over Thomas, to him Thomas was ready to yield 
that which he claimed. Molken said, “ Come along,” and 
Thomas went along. Nor was it always to the gambling-house 


189 


Of Useful Odds and Ends. 

that he followed Molken ; but although there was one most 
degrading species of vice from which his love to Lucy — for he 
loved Lucy with a real though not great love — did preserve 
him, there were several places to which his friend took him 
from which he could scarcely emerge as pure as he entered 
them. I suspect — thanks to what influence Lucy had with 
him, to what conscience he had left in him, to what good his 
mother and Mr. Simon had taught him, in a word, to the care 
of God over him — Mr. Molken found him rather harder to 
corrupt than, from his shilly-shally ways, he had expected. 
Above all, the love of woman, next to the love of God, is the 
power of God to a young man’s salvation ; for all is of God, 
everything, from first to last — nature, providence, and grace — 
it is all of our Father in Heaven ; and what God hath joined 
let not man put asunder. 

His gambling was a very trifle as far as money went : an 
affair of all but life and death as far as principle was concerned. 
There is nothing like the amount of in-door gambling that 
there used to be ; but there is no great improvement in taking 
it to the downs and the open air, and making it librate on the 
muscles of horses instead of on the spinning power of a top or 
the turning up of cards. And whoever gambles, whether at 
rouge-et-noir or at Fly-away versus Staywell, will find that the 
laws of gambling are, like those of the universe, unalterable. 
The laws of gambling are discontent, confusion, and loss upon 
everyone who seeks to make money without giving money’s 
worth. It will matter little to the grumbler whether the retri- 
bution comes in this world, he thinking, like Macbeth, to 
^‘skip the life to come,” or in the next. He will find that 
one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand 
years as one day. 

But for Thomas, the worst thing in the gambling, besides 
the bad company it led him into, was that the whole affair fell 
in so with his natural weakness. Gambling is the employment 
fitted for the man without principles and without will, for his 
whole being is but, as far as he is concerned, the roulette-ball 
of chance. The wise, on the contrary, do not believe in For- 
tune, yield nothing to her sway, go on their own fixed path 
regardless ^^of her that turneth as a ball,” as Chaucer says. 
They at least will be steady, come to them what may. Thomas 
got gradually weaker and weaker, and, had it not been for 
Lucy, would soon have fallen utterly. But she, like the lady 
of an absent lord, still kept one fortress for him in a yielded 
and devastated country. 


190 


Guild Court 


There was no newspaper taken in at Mr. Worboise’s, for he 
always left home for his office as soon as possible. So, when 
Thomas reached the counting-house, he had heard nothing of 
the sad news about his late master and his family. But the 
moment ho entered the place he felt that the atmosphere was 
clouded. Mr. Wither, whose face was pale as death, rose from 
the desk where he had been sitting, caught up his hat, and 
went out. Thomas could not help suspecting that his entrance 
was the cause of Mr. Wither’s departure, and his thoughts 
went back to last night, and he wondered whether his fellow- 
clerks would cut him because of the company he had been in. 
His conscience could be more easily pricked by the apprehen- 
sion of overt disapprobation than by any other goad. Hone 
of them took any particular notice of him ; only a gloom as of 
a funeral hung about all their faces, and radiated from them 
so as to make the whole place look sepulchral. Mr. Stopper 
was sitting within the glass partition, whence he called for 
Mr. Worboise, who obeyed with a bad grace, as anticipating 
something disagreeable. 

“There!” said Mr. Stopper, handing him the newspaper, 
and watching him as he read. 

Thomas read, returned the paper, murmured something, and 
went back with scared face to the outer room. There a con- 
versation arose in a low voice, as if it had been in the presence 
of the dead. Various questions were asked and conjectures 
hazarded, but nobody knew anything. Thomas’s place was 
opposite the glass, and before he had been long seated he saw 
Mr. Stopper take the key of the door of communication from 
a drawer, unlock the door, and with the Times in his hand 
walk into Mrs. Boxall’s house, closing the door behind him. 
This movement was easy to understand, and set Thomas 
thinking. Then first the thought struck him that Lucy and 
her grandmother would come in for all the property. This 
sent a glow of pleasure through him, and he had enough ado 
to keep the funeral look which belonged to the occasion. 
How he need not fear to tell his father the fact of his engage- 
ment — indeed, he might delay the news as long as he liked, 
sure that it would be welcome when it came. If his father 
were pleased, he did not care so much for his mother. But 
had he known how much she loved him, he could not have 
got so far away from her as he was now. If, on the other 
hand, he had fallen in with her way of things, she would have 
poured out upon him so much repressed affection that he 
would have known it. But till he saw as she saw, felt as she 


191 


Of Useful Odds and Ends, 

felt, and could talk as she talked, her motherhood saw an 
impervious barrier between her and him — a barrier she labored 
hard to remove, but with tools that could make no passage 
through an ever-closing mist. 

I cannot help thinking that if he had told all now, the 
knowledge of his relation to Lucy would have been welcomed 
l)y his father, and would have set everything right. I cannot 
but believe that Mr. Worboise’s mind was troubled about the 
property. With perfect law on his side, there was yet that 
against him which all his worldliness did not quite enable him 
to meet with coolness. But the longer the idea of the prop- 
erty rested upon his mind, the more, as L it had been the red- 
hot coin of the devil’s gift, it burned and burrowed out a nest 
for itself, till it lay there stone-cold and immovably fixed, and 
not to be got rid of. Before many weeks had passed he not 
only knew that it was his by law, but felt that it was his by 
right — his own by right of possession, and the clinging of his 
heart-strings around it — his own because it was so good that 
he could not part with it. Still it was possible that something 
adverse might turn up, and there was no good in incumng 
odium until he was absolutely sure that the fortune as well as 
the odium would be his ; therefore he was in no haste to pro- 
pound the will. 

But, as I have said, he began to be more ambitious for his 
son, and the more he thought about the property, the more 
he desired to increase it by the advantageous alliance which he 
had now no doubt he could command. This persuasion was 
increased by the satisfaction which his son’s handsome person 
and pleasing manners afforded him ; and a confidence of man- 
ner which had of late shown itself, chiefly, it must be con- 
fessed, from the experience of the world he had had in the 
company he of late frequented, had raised in his father’s mind 
a certain regard for him which he had not felt before. There- 
fore he began to look about him and speculate. He had not 
the slightest suspicion of Thomas being in love ; and, indeed, 
there was nothing in his conduct or appearance that could 
have aroused such a suspicion in his mind. Mr. Worboise 
believed, on the contrary, that his son was leading a rather 
wild life . 

It may seem strange that Thomas should not by this time 
have sunk far deeper into the abyss of misery ; but Molken 
had been careful in not trying to hook him while he was only 
nibbling ; and, besides, until he happened to be able to lose 
something worth winning, he rather avoided running him into 


192 


Guild Court 


any scrape that might disgust him without bringing any con- 
siderable advantage to himself. 

There was one adverse intelligence, of whom Mr. Worboise 
knew nothing, and who knew nothing of Mr. Worboise, ready 
to pounce upon him the moment he showed his game. This 
was Mr. Sargent. Smarting, not under Lucy’s refusal so 
much as from the lingering suspicion that she had altogether 
misinterpreted his motives, he watched for an opportunity of 
proving his disinterestedness ; this was his only hope ; for he 
saw that Lucy was lost to him. He well knew that in the 
position of her and her grandmother, it would not be surpris- 
ing if something with a forked tongue or a cloven foot should 
put its head out of a hole before very long, and begin to creep 
toward them ; and therefore, as I say, he kept an indefinite 
but wide watch, in the hope which I have mentioned. He 
had no great difficulty in discovering that Mr. Worboise had 
been Mr. Boxall’s man of business, but he had no right to 
communicate with him on the subject. This indeed Mr. 
Stopper, who had taken the place of adviser in general to Mrs. 
Boxall, had already done, asking him whether Mr. Boxall had 
left no will, to which he had received a reply only to the effect 
that it was early days, that there was no proof of his death, 
and that he was prepared to give what evidence he possessed 
at the proper time — an answer Mrs. Boxall naturally enough, 
with her fiery disposition, considered less than courteous. Of 
this Mr. Sargent of course was not aware, but, as the only 
thing he could do at present, he entered a caveat in the Court 
of Probate. 

Mr. Stopper did his best for the business in the hope of one 
day having not only the entire management as now, but an 
unquestionable as unquestioned right to the same. If he ever 
thought of anything further since he had now a free entrance 
to Mrs. Boxall’s region, he could not think an inch in that 
direction without encountering the idea of Thomas. 

It was very disagreeable to Thomas that Mr. Stopper, whom 
he detested, sliould have this free admission to what he had 
been accustomed to regard as his peculium. He felt as if the 
place were defiled by his presence, and to sit as he had some- 
times to sit, knowing that Mr. Stopper was overhead, was 
absolutely hateful. But, as I shall have to set forth in the 
next chapter, Lucy was not at home ; and that mitigated the 
matter very considerably. For the rest, Mr. Stopper was on 
the whole more civil to Thomas than he had hitherto been, 
and appeared even to put a little more confidence in him than. 


193 


Mattie in the Country, 

formerijr. The fact was, that the insecurity of his position 
made him conscious of yulnerability, and he wished to be 
friendly on all sides, with a yague general feeling of strength- 
ening his outworks. 

Mr. Wither neyer opened his mouth to Thomas upon any 
occasion or necessity, and from seyeral symptoms it appeared 
that his grief, or rather perhaps the antidotes to it, were drag- 
ging him down hill. 

Amy Worhoise was not at home. The mother had seen 
symptoms ; and much as she yalued Mr. Simon’s ghostly min- 
istrations, the old Adam in her rebelled too strongly against 
haying a curate for her son-in-law. So Amy disappeared for 
a season, upon a conyenient inyitation. But if she. had been 
at home, she could haye influenced eyents in nothing ; for, as 
often happens in families, there was no real communication 
between brother and sister. 


CHAPTER XXYIII. 

MATTIE IN THE COUNTEY. 

I NOW return to resume the regular thread of my story. 

I do not know if my reader is half as much interested in 
Mattie as I am. I doubt it yery much. He will, most prob- 
ably, like Poppie better. But big-headed, strange, and con- 
ceited as Mattie was, she was altogether a higher being than 
Poppie. She thought ; Poppie only received impressions. If 
she had more serious faults than Poppie, they were faults that 
belonged to a more advanced stage of growth ; diseased, my 
reader may say, but diseased with a disease that fell in with, 
almost belonged to, the untimely development. All Poppie’s 
thoughts, to speak roughly, came from without ; all Mattie’s 
from within. To complete Mattie, she had to go back a little, 
and learn to receive impressions too ; to complete Poppie, she 
had to work upon the impressions she received, and, so to 
speak, generate thoughts of her own. Mattie led the life of a 
human being ; Poppie of a human animal. Mattie lived ; 
Poppie was there. Poppie was the type of most people ; Mat- 
tie of the elect. 

Lucy did not intend, in the sad circumstances in which she 
13 


194 


Guild Court 


now was, to say a word to licr grandmother about Mrs. Mor- 
gcnstern’s proposal. But it was brought about very naturally. 
As she entered the court she met Mattie. The child had been 
once more to visit Mr. Spelt, but had found the little nest so 
oppressive that she had begged to bo put down again, that she 
might go to her own room. Mr. Spelt was leaning over his 
door and his crossed legs, for he could not stand up, looking 
anxiously after her ; and the child’s face was so pale and sad, 
and she lield her little hand so pitifully to her big head, that 
Lucy could not help feeling that the first necessity among her 
duties was to get Mattie away. 

After the fresh burst of her grandmother’s grief at sight of 
her was over, after Mr. Stopper had gone back to the counting- 
house, and she had fallen into a silent recking to and fro, 
Lucy ventured to speak. 

^‘They’re gone home, dear gTannie,” she said. 

^^And I shan’t stay long behind them, my dear,” grannie 
moaned. 

That’s some comfort, isn’t it, grannie ? ” said Lucy, for 
her own heart was heavy, not for the dead, but for the living ; 
heavy for her own troubles, hea’ST’ for Thomas, about whom 
she felt very despondent, almost despairing. 

Ah ! you young people would be glad enough to have the 
old ones out of the way,” returned Mrs. Eoxall, in the petu- 
lance of grief. ‘^Havo patience, Lucy, have patience, child; 
it won’t be long, and then you can do as you like.” 

Oh, gTannie, grannie f” cried Luc}^, bursting into tears. 

do everything I like now. I only wanted to cemfert you,” 
she sobbed. ‘‘I thought you would like to go too. I wish I 
wus dead.” 

You, child !” exclaimed Mrs. Boxall ; why should you 
wish you was dead ? You don’t know enough of life to wish 
for death.” Then, as Lucy went on sobbing, her tone changed 
— for she began to be concerned at her distress. What is 
the m.atter with my darling ? ” she said. Are you ill, 
Lucy ? ” 

Then Lucy -went to her and kissed her, and knelt down, and 
laid her head in the old woman’s lap. And her grannie 
stroked her hair, and spoke to her as if she had been one of 
her own babies, and, in seeking to comfort her, forgot her 
ovfn troubles for the moment. 

You’ve been doing too much for other people, Lucy,” she 
said. We must think of you now. You must go to the 
sea-side for awhile. You shan’t go about giving lessons any 


195 


Mattie in the Country. 

more, my lamb. There is no need for that any more, for they 
say all the money will be ours now.” 

And the old woman wept again at the thought of the source 
of their coming prosperity. 

I should like to go to the country very much, if you would 
go too, grannie.” 

No, no, child, I don’t want to go. I don’t want any do- 
ing good to.” 

But I don’t like to leave you, grannie,” objected Lucy. 

Never mind me, my dear. I shall be better alone for 
awhile. And I dare say there will be some business to at- 
tend to.” 

And so they went on talking, till Lucy told her all about 
Mrs. Morgenstern’s plan, and how ill poor Mattie looked, and 
that she would be glad to go away for a little while herself. 
Mrs, Boxall would not consent to go, but she even urged Lucy 
to accept the proposed arrangement, and proceeded at once to 
inquire into her v/ardrobe, and talk about mourning. 

Two days after, Lucy and Mattie met Mrs. Morgenstern and 
Miriam at the London Bridge railway station. Mattie looked 
quite dazed, almost stupid, with the noise and bustle ; but 
when they were once in motion, she heaved a deep sigh, and 
looked comforted. She said nothing, however, for some time, 
and her countenance revealed no surprise. Whatever was out 
of the usual way always oppressed Mattie — not excited her ; 
and, therefore, the more surprising anything was, the less did 
it occasion any outward shape of surprise. But as they flashed 
into the first tunnel, Lucy saw her start and shudder ere they 
vanished from each other in the darkness. She put out her 
hand and took hold of the child’s. It was cold and trembling ; 
but as she held it gently and warmly in her own, it grew 
quite still. By the time the light began to grow again, her 
face was peaceful, and when they emerged in the cutting be- 
yond, she was calm enough to speak the thought that had 
come to her in the dark. With another sigh — 

I knew the country wasn’t nice,” she said. 

“ But you don’t know what the country is yet,” answered 
Lucy. 

I know quite enough of it,” returned Mattie. ‘‘ I like 
London best. I wish I could see some shops.” 

Lucy did not proceed to argue the matter with her. She 
did not tell her how unfair she was to judge the country by 
what lay between her and it. As well might she have argued 
with Thomas that the bitterness of the repentance from which 


196 


GuUd Court 


he shrank was not the religion to which she wanted to lead 
him ; that religion itself was to him inconceivable, and conld 
but be known when he was in it. She had tried this plan 
with him in their last interview before she left. She had her- 
self, under the earnest teaching of Mr. Fuller, and in the il- 
lumination of that Spirit for which she prayed, learned many 
a spiritual lesson, had sought eagerly, and therefore gained 
rapidly. For hers was one of the good soils, well prepared 
beforehand for the seed of the redeeming truth of God’s love, 
and the Sonship of Christ, and his present power in the hu- 
man soul. And she had tried, I say, to make Thomas believe 
in the blessedness of the man whose iniquities are pardoned, 
whose sins are covered, to whom the Lord imputeth not his 
transgressions ; but Thomas had re23lied only with some of the 
stock phrases of assent. A nature such as his could not think 
of law and obedience save as restraint. While he would be 
glad enough to have the weight of conscious wrong-doing lifted 
off him, he could not see that in yielding his own way and 
taking God’s lay the only freedom of which the human being, 
made in the image of God, is capable. 

Presently Mattie found another argument upon her side, 
that is, the town-side of the question. She had been sitting 
for half an hour watching the breath of the snorting engine, 
as it rushed out for a stormy flight over the meek fields, fal- 
tered, lingered, faded, melted, was gone. 

told you so,” said Matti-e: ‘‘nothing lasts in the coun- 
try.” 

“What are you looking at now ?” asked Lucy, bending for- 
ward to see. 

“Those white clouds,” answered Mattie. “Fve been ex- 
pecting them to do something for ever so long. And they 
never do anything, though they begin in such a hurry. The 
green gets the better of them somehow. They melt away into 
it, and are all gone.” 

“ But they do the grass some good, I dare say,” returned 
Lucy — “ in hot weather like this especially.” 

“ Well, that’s not what they set out for, anyhow,” said Mat- 
tie. “ They look always as if they were just going to take 
grand shapes, and make themselves up into an army, and go 
out and conquer the world.” 

“And then,” suggested Lucy, yielding to the fancy of the 
child, “ they think better of it, and give themselves up, and 
die into the world to do it good, instead of trampling it under 
their feet and hurting it.” 


197 


Mattie in the Country, 

ho\v do they come to change their minds so soon ?” 
asked Mattie, beginning to smile ; for this was the sort of in- 
tellectual duel in which her little soul delighted. 

Oh, I don’t think they do change their minds. I don’t 
think they ever meant to trample down the world. That was 
your notion, you know, Mattie.” 

Well, what do you think they set out for ? Why do they 
rush out so fiercely all at once ? ” 

I will tell you what I think,” answered Lucy, without 
perceiving more than the faintest glimmering of the human 
reality of what she said, ‘‘I think they rush out of the hot 
place in which they are got ready to do the fields good, in so 
much pain, that they toss themselves about in strange ways, 
and people think they are fierce and angry when they are only 
suffering — shot out into the air from a boiling kettle, you 
know, Mattie.” 

^^Ah ! yes; I see,” answered Mattie. ‘‘That’s it, is it? 
Yes, I dare say. Out of a kettle ? ” 

Miriam had drawn near, and was listening, but she could 
make little of all this, for her hour was not yet come to ask, or 
to understand such questions. 

“ Yes, that great round thing in front of us is just a great 
kettle,” said Lucy. 

“ Well, I will look at it when we get out. I thought there 
wasn’t much in the country. I suppose we shall get out again, 
though. This isn’t all the country, is it ? ” 

Before they reached Hastings, Mattie was fast asleep. It was 
the evening. She scarcely woke when they stopped for the 
last time. Lucy carried her from the carriage to a cab, and 
when they arrived at the lodgings where they were expected, 
made all haste to get her to bed and asleep. 

But she woke the earlier in the moiming, and the first thing 
she was aware of was the crowing of a very clear- throated cock, 
such a cock as Henry Vaughan must have listened to in the 
morning of the day when he wrote 

“ Father of lights ! what sunnie seed, 

What glance of day hast thou confined 
Into this bird ? To all the breed 
This busie Ray thou hast assigned; 

Their magnetisme works all night, 

And dreams of Paradise and light.” 

She could not collect her thoughts for some time. She 
was aware that a change had taken place, but what was 


198 


Guild Court 


it ? Was she somebody else ? What did they use to call 
her ? Then she remembered Mr. Spelt’s shop, and knew that 
she was Mattie Kitely. What then had happened to her ? 
Something certainly had happened, else how could the cock 
crow like that ? She was now aware that her eyes were open, 
but she did not know that Lucy was in another bed in the 
same room watching her — whence afterward, when she put 
Mattie’s words and actions together, she was able to give this 
interpretation of her thoughts. The room was so different 
from anything she had been used to, that she could not under- 
stand it. She crept out of bed and went to the mndow. 
There was no blind to it, only curtains drawn close in 
front. 

Now my reader must remember that when Mattie went to 
the window of her own room at home she saw into Guild 
Court. The house in which they now were was half way up 
one of the hills on the sides of which great part of Hastings is 
built. The sun was not shining upon the window at this hour 
of the morning, and therefore did not obstruct the view. 
Hence when Mattie went between the curtains she saw nothing 
but that loveliest of English seas — the Hastings sea — lying 
away out into the sky, or rather, as it appeared to her unaccus- 
tomed gaze, piled up like a hill against the sky, which domed 
it over, vast and blue, and triumphant in sunlight — just a few 
white sails below and a few white clouds above, to show how 
blue the sea and sky were in this glory of an autumn morning. 
She saw nothing of the eai*th on which she was upheld ; only 
the sea and the sky. She started back with a feeling that she 
could never describe ; there was terror, and loneliness, and 
helplessness in it. She turned and fiew to her bod, but instead 
of getting into it, fell down on her knees by the side of it, 
clutched the bed-clothes, and sobbed and wept aloud. Lucy 
was by her side in a moment, took her in her arms, carried 
her into her own bed, and comforted her in her bosom. 

Mattie had been all her life sitting in the camera-obscura of 
her own microcosm, watching the shadows that went and 
came, and now first she looked up and out upon the world be- 
yond and above her. All her doings had gone on in the world 
of her own imaginings ; and although that big brain of hers 
contained — no, I cannot say contained^ but what else am I to 
say ?— a being greater than all that is seen, heard, or handled, 
yet the outward show of divine imagination which now met 
her eyes might well overpower that world within her. I fancy 
that, like the blind to whom sight is given, she did not at 


199 


Mattie in the Country. 

first recognize tlie difference between herself and it, but felt 
as if it was all inside her and she did not know what to do 
with it. She would not have cried at the sight of a rose, as 
Poppie did. I doubt whether Mattie’s was altogether such a 
refined nature as Poppie’s — to begin with : she would have 
rather patronized the rose-tree, and looked down upon it as a 
presuming and rather unpleasant thing because it bore dying 
children ; and she needed, some time or other, and that was 
now, just such a sight as this to take the conceit out of her. 
Less of a vision of the eternal would not have been sufficient. 
Was it worth while ? Yes. The vdiole show of the universe 
was well spent to take an atom of the self out of a child. God 
is at much trouble with us, but he never weighs material ex- 
pense against spiritual gain to one of his creatures. The 
whole universe existed for Mattie. There is more than that 
that the Father has not spared. And no human fault, the 
smallest, is overcome, save by the bringing in of true, grand 
things. A sense of the infinite and the near, the far yet im- 
pending, rebuked the conceit of Mattie to the very core, and 
without her knowing why or how. She clung to Lucy as a 
child would cling, and as, all through her illness, she had 
never clung before. 

What IS the matter with you, Mattie, dear ?” asked Lucy, 
but asked in vain. Mattie only clung to her the closer, and be- 
gan a fresh utterance of sobs. Lucy therefore held her peace for 
some time and waited. And in the silence of that waiting she 
became aware that a lark was singing somewhere out in the 
great blue vault. 

Listen to the lark singing so sweetly,” she said at length. 
And Mattie moved her head enough to show that she would 
listen, and lay still a long while listening. At length she said, 
with a sob : 

What is a lark ? I never saw one. Miss Burton.” 

^^A bird like a sparrow. You know what a sparrow is, 
don’t you, dear ? ” 

Yes. I have seen sparrows often in the court. They 
pick up dirt.” 

^‘Well, a lark is like a sparrow; only it doesn’t pick up 
dirt, and sings as you hear it. And it flies so far up into the 
sky that you can’t see it — you can only hear the song it scat- 
ters down upon the earth.” 

Oh, how dreadful ! ” said Mattie, burying her head again 
as if she would shut out hearing and sight and all. 

^^What is it that is dreadful ? I don’t understand you, Mattie.” 


200 


Guild Court. 


To fly up into that awful place up there. Shall we have 
to do that when we die ? ’’ 

^^It is not an awful place, dear. God is there, you 
know.” 

‘^But I am frightened. And if God is up there, I shall be 
frightened at him too. It is so dreadful ! I used to think 
that God could see me when I was in London. But how he 
is to see me in this great place, with so many things about, 
cocks and larks, and all, I can’t think. I’m so little ! I’m 
hardly worth taking care of.” 

^^But you remember, Mattie, what Somebody says— that 
God takes care of every sparrow.” 

Yes, but that’s the sparrows, and they’re in the town, you 
know,” said Mattie, with an access of her old fantastic per- 
versity, flying for succor, as it always does, to false logic. 

Lucy saw that it was time to stop. The child’s fear was 
gone for the present, or she could not have talked such non- 
sense. It was just as good, however, as the logic of most of 
those who worship the letter and call it the word. 

‘^Why don’t you speak. Miss Burton?” asked Mattie at 
length, no doubt conscience-stricken by her silence. 

‘^Because you are talking nonsense now, Mattie.” 

I thought that was it. But why should that make you 
not speak ? for I need the more to hear sense.” 

‘‘No, Mattie. Mr. Fuller says that when people begin to 
talk falsely, it is better to be quite silent, and let them say 
what they please, till the sound of their own nonsense makes 
them ashamed.” 

“ As it did me. Miss Burton, as soon as you wouldn’t speak 
any more.” 

“ He says it docs no good to contradict them then, for they 
are not only unworthy to hear the truth — that’s not it — if 
they would near it — but they are not lit to hear it. They are 
not in a mood to get any good from it ; for they are holding 
the door open for the devil to come in, and truth can’t get in 
at the same door with the devil.” 

“ Oh, how dreadful ! To think of me talking like Syne ! ” 
said Mattie. “ I won’t do it again, Miss Burton. Do tell me 
what Somebody said about God and the sparrows. Didn’t he 
say something about counting their feathers ? I think I 
remember Mr. Spelt reading that to me one night.” 

“He said something about counting your hairs, Mattie.” 

Mine? 

“ Well, he said it to all the people that would listen to him. 


201 


Moitie in the Country, 

I dare say there were some that could not believe it be- 
cause they did not care to be told it.” 

That’s me, Miss Burton. But I won’t do it again. 
Well — what more ? ” 

Only this, Mattie : that if God knows how many hairs you 
have got on your head — ” 

My big head,” interrupted Mattie. Well ? ” 

Yes, on your big head — if God knows that, you can’t think 
you’re too small for him to look after you.” 

I will try not to be frightened at the big sky any more, 
dear Miss Burton ; I will try.” 

In a few minutes she was fast asleep again. 

Lucy’s heart was none the less trustful that she had tried to 
increase Mattie’s faith. He who cared for the sparrows would 
surely hear her cry for Thomas, nay, would surely look after 
Thomas himself. The father did not forget the prodigal son 
all the time that he was away ; did not think of him only when 
he came back again, worn and sorrowful. In teaching Mattie 
she had taught herself. She had been awake long before her, 
turning over and over her troubled thoughts till they were all 
in a raveled sleeve of care. Now she too fell fast asleep in her 
hope, and when she awoke, her thoughts were all knit up again 
in an even resolve to go on and do her duty, casting her care 
upon Him that cared for her. 

And now Mattie’s childhood commenced. She had had 
none as yet. Her disputatiousness began to vanish. She 
could not indulge it in the presence of the gi’eat sky, which 
grew upon her till she felt, as many children and some con- 
science-stricken men have felt — that it was the great eye of 
God looking at her ; and although this feeling was chiefly as- 
sociated with awe at first, she soon began to love the sky, and 
to be sorry and oppressed upon cloudy days when she could no 
longer look up into it. 

The next day they went down to the beach, in a quiet place, 
among great stones, under the east cliff. Lucy sat down on 
one of them, and began to read a book Mr. Fuller had lent 
her. Miriam was at a little distance, picking up shells, and 
Mattie on another stone nearer the sea. The tide was rising. 
Suddenly Mattie came scrambling in great haste over all that 
lay between her and Lucy. Her face was pale, scared, and 
eager. 

I’m so frightened again ! ” she said ; and I can’t help it. 
The sea ! What does it mean ? ” 

What do you mean, Mattie ? ” returned Lucy, smiling. 


202 


Guild Court. 


Well, it’s roaring at me, and coming nearer and nearer, as 
if it wanted to swallow me up. I don’t like it.” 

You must not be afraid of it. God made it, you know.” 
Why does he let it roar at me, then ? ” 

I don’t know. Perhaps to teach you not to be afraid.” 

Mattie said no more, stood a little while by Lucy, and then 
scrambled back to her former place. 

The next day, they managed with som.e difficulty to get up 
on the East Plill ; Mattie was very easily worn out, especially 
with climbing. She gazed at the sea below her, the sky over 
her head, the smooth grass under her feet, and gave one of 
her great sighs. Then she looked troubled. 

I feel as if I hadn’t any clothes on,” she said. 

“How is that, Mattie ?” 

“ AYell, I don’t know. I feel as if I couldn’t stand steady — 
as if I hadn’t an3rthing to keep me up. In London, you know, 
the houses were alv/ays beside to hold a body up, and keep 
them steady. But here, if it v/eren’t for Somebody, I should 
be so frightened for falling down — I don’t know where ! ” 

Lucy smiled. She did not see then how exactly the cliild 
symbolized those who think they have faith in God, and yet 
when one of the swaddling bands of system or dogma to which 
they have been accustomed is removed, or even only slackened, 
immediately feel as if there were no God, as if the earth un- 
der their feet were a cloud, and the sky over them a color, 
and nothing to trust in any^vhere. They rest in their swad- 
dling bands, not in God. The loosening of these is God’s gift 
to them that they may grow. But first they are much afraid. 

Still Mattie looked contemptuously on the flowers. Wan- 
dering along the clifl, they came to a patch that was full of 
daisies. Miriam’s familiarity with the gorgeous productions 
of green-house and hot-house had not injured her capacity for 
enjoying these peasants of flowers. She rushed among them 
with a cry of pleasure, and began gathering them eagerly. 
Mattie stood by with a look of condescending contempt ujion 
her pale face. 

“ Wouldn’t you like to gather some daisies too, Mattie?” 
suggested Lucy. 

“ Where’s the use ?” said Mattie. “ The poor things’ll be 
withered in no time. It’s almost a shame to gather them, I 
do think.” 

“Well, you needn’t gather them if you don’t want to have 
them,” returned Lucy. “ But I wonder you don’t like them, 
they are so pretty.” 


203 


Mattie in the Country. 

But they don’t last. I don’t like things that die. I had 
a little talk with Mr. Fuller about that.” 

Now Mr. Fuller had told Lucy what the child had said, and 
this had resulted in a good deal of talk. Mr. Fuller was a great 
lover of Wordsworth, and the book Lucy was now reading, the 
one he had lent her, was W ordsworth’s Poems. She had not 
found what she now answered, either in Wordsworth’s poems 
or in Mr. Fuller’s conversation, but it came from them both, 
mingling with her love to God, and her knowledge of the 
Saviour’s words, with the question of the child to set her mind 
working with them all at once. She thought for a moment, 
and then said : 

‘^Listen, Mattie. You don’t dislike to hear me talk, do 
you ?” 

^^No, indeed,” answered Mattie. 

You like the words I say to you, then ? ” 

Yes, indeed,” said Mattie, wondering what would come 
next. 

‘‘But my words die as soon as they are out of my mouth.” 

Mattie began to see a glimmering of something coming, and 
held her peace and listened. Lucy went on. 

“Weil, the flowers are some of God’s words, and they last 
longer than mine.” 

“ But I understand your words. I know what you want to 
say to me. And I don’t know the meaning of 

“ That’s because you haven’t looked at them long enough. 
You must suppose them words in God’s book, and try to read 
them and understand them.” 

“I will try,” said Mattie, and walked soberly toward Mir- 
iam. 

But she did not begin to gather the daisies as Miriam was 
doing. She lay down in the grass just as Chaucer tells us he 
used to do in the mornings of May for the same purpose — to 
look at the daisy — “ leaning on my elbow and my side ” ; and 
thus she continued for some time. Then she rose and came 
slowly back to Lucy. 

“ I can’t tell what they mean,” she said. “ I have been 
trying very hard, too.” 

“ I don’t know whether I understand them or not, myself. 
But I fancy we get some good from what God shows us even 
when we don’t understand it much.” 

“ They are such little things !” said Mattie. “ I can hardly 
fancy them worth making.” 

“ God thinks them worth making, though, or he would not 


204 


Guild Court 


make them. He wouldn’t do anything that he did not care 
about doing. There’s the lark again. Listen to him, how 
glad he is. He is so happy that he can’t bear it without sing- 
ing. If he couldn’t sing it would break his heart, I fancy. 
Do you think God would have made his heart so glad if he did 
not care for his gladness, or given him such a song to sing — for 
he must have made the song and taught it to the lark — the 
song is just the lark’s heart coming out in sounds — would he 
have made all the lark if he did not care for it ? And he 
would not have made the daisies so pretty if their prettiness 
was not worth something in his eyes. And if God cares for 
them, surely it is worth our while to care for them too.” 

Mattie listened very earnestly, went back to the daisies, and 
lay down again beside a group of them. Miriam kept running 
about from one spot to another, gathering them. What Mat- 
tie said, or what Miriam replied, I do not know, but in a little 
while Mattie came to Lucy with a red face — a rare show in her. 

I don’t like Miss Miriam,” she said. She’s not nice at all. ” 

^^Why, what’s the matter ?” asked Lucy, in some surprise, 
for the children had got on very well together as yet. What 
has she been doing ? ” 

She doesn’t care a bit for Somebody. I don’t like her.” 

^^But Somebody likes her.” 

To this Mattie returned no answer, but stood thoughtful. 
The blood withdrew from her face to its fountain, and she 
went back to the daisies once more. 

The following day she began to gather flowers as other chil- 
dren do, even to search for them as for hidden treasures. 
And if she did not learn their meaning with her understanding, 
she must have learned it with her heart, for she would gaze 
at some of them in a way that showed plainly enough that she 
felt their beauty ; and in the beauty, the individual loveliness 
of such things, lies the dim lesson with which they faintly 
tincture our being. No man can be quite the same he was 
after having loved a new flower. 

Thus, by degrees, Mattie’s thought and feeling were drawn 
outward. Her health improved. Body and mind reacted, on 
each other. She gi’ew younger and humbler. Every day her 
eyes were opened to some fresh beauty on the earth, some new 
shadowing of the sea, some passing loveliness in the heavens. 
She had hitherto refused the world as a thing she had not 
proved ; now she began to find herself at home in it, that is, 
to find that it was not a strange world to which she bad come, 
but a home ; not, indeed, the innermost, sacredest room of the 


205 


Poppie in Town, 

house where the Father sat, hut still a home, full of his pres- 
ence, his thoughts, his designs. Is it any wonder that a child 
should prosper better in such a world than in a catacomb filled 
with the coffined remains of thinking men ? I mean her 
father’s book-shop. Here, God was ever before her in the 
living forms of his thought, a power and a blessing. Every 
wind that blew was his breath, and the type of his inner 
breathing upon the human soul. Every morning was filled 
with his light, and the t3rpe of the growing of that light which 
lighteth every man that cometh into the world. And there 
are no natural types that do not dimly work their own spiritual 
reality upon the open heart of a human being. 

Before she left Hastings, Mattie was almost a child. 


CHAPTEE XXIX. 

POPPIE m TOWN. 

Between Mr. Spelt’s roost and the house called Xo. 1 of 
Guild Court there stood a narrow house, as tall as the rest, 
which showed by the several bell-pulls, ranged along the side of 
the door, that it was occupied by different households. Mr. Spelt 
had for some time had his eye upon it, in the hope of a vacancy 
occurring in its top chambers, occupying which he would be 
nearer his work, and have a more convenient home in case he 
should some day succeed in taming and capturing Poppie. 
Things had been going well in every way with the little tailor. 
He had had a good many more private customers for the last 
few months, began in consequence to look down from a grow- 
ing bight ujion slop-work, though he was too prudent to drop 
it all at once, and had three or four pounds in the post-office 
savings-bank. Likewise his fishing had prospered. Poppie 
came for her sweets as regularly as a robin for his crumbs in 
winter. Spelt, however, did not now confine his bait to sweets ; 
a fresh roll, a currant bun, sometimes — ^when his longing for 
his daughter had been especially strong the night before, even 
a Bath bun — would hang suspended by a string from the aerial 
threshold, so that Poppie could easily reach it, and yet it should 
be under the protection of the tailor from chance maraud- 
ers. And every morning as she took it, she sent a sweet smile 


206 


Guild Court. 


of thanks to the upper regions whence came her aid. Though 
not very capable of conversation, she would occasionally answer 
a few questions about facts — as, for instance, where she had 
slept the last niglit, to which the answer would commonly be, 
‘‘Mother Flanaghan’s ; ” but once, to the tailor’s no small 
discomposure, was “The Jug.” She did not seem to know 
exactly, however, how it was that she got incarcerated : there 
had been a crowd, and somebody had prigged something, and 
there was a scurry and a running, and she scudded as usual, 
and got took up. Mr. Spelt was more anxious than ever to 
take her home after this. But sometimes, the moment he 
began to talk to her she would run away, without the smallest 
appearance of rudeness, only of inexplicable oddity ; and Mr. 
Spelt thought sometimes that he was not a single step nearer 
to the desired result than when he first baited his hook. He 
regarded it as a good omen, however, wdien, by the death of 
an old woman and the removal of her daughter, the topmost 
floor of the house, consisting of two small rooms, became 
vacant ; and he secured them at a weekly rental quite within 
the reach of his improved means. He did not imagine how 
soon he would be able to put them to the use he most desired. 

One evening, just as the light was fading and he proceeded 
to light a candle to enable him to go on with his work, he 
heard the patter of her bare feet on the slabs, for his ear was 
very keen for this most pleasant of sounds, and looking down, 
saw the child coming toward him, holding the bottom of her 
ragged frock up to her head. He had scarcely tim e to be alarmed 
before she stopped at the foot of his shop, looked up pale as 
death, with a dark streak of blood running through the paleness, 
and burst into a wail. The little man was down in a moment, 
but before his feet reached the ground Poppie had fallen upon 
it in a faint. He lifted the child in his arms with a strange 
mixture of i)ity and horror in his big heart, and sped up the 
three stairs to his own dwelling. There he laid her on his bed, 
struck a light, and j)roceeded to examine her. He found a 
large and deep cut in her head, from v/hich the blood was still 
flowing. He rushed down again, and fortunately found Dol- 
man on the point of leaving. Him he sent for the doctor, and 
returned like an arrow to his treasure. Having done all he 
could, with the aid of his best Sunday shirt, to stop the bleed- 
ing, he waited impatiently for the doctor’s arrival, which 
seemed long delayed. Before he came the child began to re- 
vive ; and, taught by the motion of her lips, he got some water 
and held to them. Poppie drank and opened her eyes. When 


207 


Poppie in Town, 

she saw who was bending over her, the faintest ghost of a smile 
glimmered about her mouth, and she closed her eyes again, 
murmuring something about Mother Flanaghan. 

As far as he could gather from piecing together what the 
child said afterward, Mr. Spelt came to the conclusion that 
Mrs. Flanaghan had come home a little the worse for cream 
of the valley,’’ and wanted more. Poppie happened to be 
alone in her room when she came, for we have seen that she 
sometimes forgot to lock the door, if, indeed, there was a lock 
on it. She had nothing to care for, however, but her gin- 
bottle ; and that she thought she hid safely enough. Whether 
she had left it empty or not, I do not know, but she found it 
empty when she neither desired nor expected to find it so ; and 
coming to the hasty and stupid conclusion that poor Poppie 
was the thief — just as an ill-trained child expends the rage of 
a hurt upon the first person vnthin his reach — she broke the 
vile vessel upon Poppie’s head with the result we have seen. 
But the cliild had forgotten everything between that and her 
waking upon Mr. SiDclt’s bed. 

The doctor came and dressed her wound, and gave directions 
for her treatment. 

And now Mr. Spelt was in the seventh heaven of delight — he 
had a little woman of his own to take care of. He was thirty- 
nine years of age ; and now, for the first time in his life, saw a 
prospect of happiness opening before him. Ho— once before, 
when he led the splendid Mrs. Spelt home from church, he 
had looked into a rosy future ; but the next morning the pros- 
pect closed, and had never opened again till now. He did 
not lie down all that night, but hovered about her bed, as if 
she had been a creature that migiit any moment spread out 
great wings and fly away from him forever. Sometimes he 
had to soothe her with kind words, for she wandered a .good 
deal, and would occasionally start up with wild looks, as if to 
lly once more from Mother Flanaghan with the gin-bottle 
bludgeon uplifted in her hand ; then the sound of Mr. Spelt’s 
voice would instantly soothe her, and she would lie down again 
and sleep. But she scarcely spoke ; for at no time was Poppie 
given to much speech. 

When the light came, he hurried down-stairs to his shop, 
got his work and all his implements out, carried them up, and 
sat with them on the floor where he could see Poppie’s face. 
There he worked away busily at a pair of cords for a groom, 
every now and then lifting his eyes from his seam to look down 
into the court, and finding them always met by the floor. 


208 


Guild Court 


Then his look would go up to the bed, seeking Poppie^s pale 
face. He found he could not get on so fast as usual. Still he 
made progress ; and it was a comfort to think that by working 
thus early he was saving time for nursing his little white 
Poppie. 

When at length she woke, she seemed a little better ; but 
she soon grew more feverish, and soon he found that he must 
constantly watch her, for she was ready to spring out of bed 
any moment. The father-heart grew dreadfully anxious before 
the doctor came ; and all that day and the next he got very 
little work done, for the poor child was really in danger. In- 
deed it was more than a week before he began to feel a little 
easy about her ; and ten days yet passed before she was at all 
able to leave her bed. 

And herein lay the greatest blessing both for Spelt and 
Poppie. I doubt if an^hing else could have given him a 
reasonable chance, as we say, of taming the wild animal. Her 
illness compelled her into such a continuance of dependent as- 
sociation with him, that the idea of him had time to grow into 
her heart ; while all her scudding propensities, which pre- 
vented her from making a quiet and thorough acquaintance 
with anybody, were not merely thwarted, but utterly gone, 
while she remained weak. The humanity of the child had there- 
fore an opportunity of developing itself ; obstructions removed, 
the well of love belonging to her nature began to pulse and to 
flow, and she was, as it were, compelled to love Mr. Spelt ; so 
that, by the time old impulses returned with returning health, 
he had a chance against them. 


CHAPTER XXX 

MB. FULLER IK HIS CHURCH. 

Mr. Puller’s main bent of practical thought was how to 
make his position in the church as far as possible from a sine- 
cure. If the church was a reality at all, if it represented a vi- 
tal body, every portion of it ought to be instinct with life. Yet 
here was one of its cells, to speak physiologically, all but in- 
active — a huge building of no use all the week, and on Sun- 
days filled with organ sounds, a few responses from a sprink- 


Mr. FuUer in Ms Church. 


209 


ling of most indifferent worshipers, and his own voice reading 
prayers and crying ‘'with sick assay” sometimes — ^to move 
those few to be better men and women than they were. Now, 
BO far it was a center of life, and as such well worthy of any 
amount of outlay of mere money. But even money itself is a 
holy thing ; and from the money point alone, low as that is, it 
might well be argued that this church was making no adequate 
return for the amount expended upon it. Not that one thought 
of honest comfort to a human soul is to be measured against 
millions of expense ; but that what the money did might well 
be measured against what the money might do. To the com- 
mercial mind such a church suggests immense futility, a judg- 
ment correct in so far as it falls short of its possibilities. To 
tell the truth, and a good truth it is to tell, Mr. Fuller was 
ashamed of St. Amos’s, and was thinking day and night how 
to retrieve the character of his church. 

And he reasoned thus with himself, in the way mostly of 
question and answer : 

“What is a Sunday?” he asked, answering himself — “A 
quiet hollow scooped out of the windy hill of the week.” 
“ Must a man then go for six days shelterless ere he comes to 
the repose of the seventh ? Are there to be no great rocks to 
shadow him between ? — no hiding-places from the wind to let 
him take breath and heart for the next stmggle ? And if 
there ought to be, where are they to be found if not in our 
churches ? — scattered like little hollovv^s of sacred silence 
scooped out of the roar and bustle of our cities, dumb to the 
questions — What shall we eat ? what shall we drink ? and 
wherewithal shall we be clothed ?— but, alas ! equally dumb to 
the question — Where shall I find rest, for I am weary and 
heavy-laden ? These churches stand absolute caverns of silence 
amid the thunder of the busy city — with a silence which does 
not remind men of the eternal silence of truth, but of the 
carelessness of heart wherewith men regard that silence. 
Their work is nowhere till Sunday comes, and nowhere after 
that till the next Sunday or the next saint’s day. How is this ? 
Why should they not lift up the voice of silence against the 
tumult of care ? against the dissonance of Comus and his 
crew ? How is it that they do not — standing with their glit- 
tering, silent cocks and their golden, unopening keys high 
uplifted in sunny air ? Why is it that their cocks do not 
crow, and their keys do not open ? Because their cocks are 
busy about how the wind blows, and their keys do not fit their 
own doors. They may be caverns of peace, but they are cav- 
14 


210 


Guild Court 


erns without entrance — sealed fountains — a mockery of the 
thirst and confusion of men.” ^^But men do not want en- 
trance. What is the use of opening the doors of our churches 
so long as men do not care to go in ? Times are changed now.” 

But does not the yery word Eevelation imply a something 
coming from heaven — not certainly before men were ready for 
it, for God cannot be preci})itate — but before they had begun 
to pray for it ? ” Mr. Fuller remembered how his own father 
used always to compel his children to eat one mouthful of any 
dish he heard them say at table that they did not like — where- 
upon they generally chose to go on with it. But they won’t 
come in.” “ How can you tell till you try, till you fulfill the 
13art of the minister (good old beautiful Christian word), and 
be ^ the life o’ the building ? ’ ” Presumption ! Are not the 
prayers everything?” ‘^At least not till you got people to 
pray them.” You make too much of the priest.” Leave 
him for God, and the true priest has all the seal of his priest- 
hood that he wants.” At least so thought Mr. Fuller. ‘‘ What 
is the priest ? ” he asked, going on with the same catechism. 

Just a man to be among men what the Sunday is among the 
work-days of the week — a man to remind you that there is a 
life within this life, or beyond and about it, if you like that 
mode better — for extremes meet in the truest figures — that 
care is not of God, that faith and confidence are truer, simpler, 
more of common sense than balances at bankers’ or preference 
shares. He is a protest against the money-heaping tendencies 
of men, against the desire of rank or estimation or any kind 
of social distinction. With him all men are equal, as in the 
Church all have equal rights, and rank ceases on the threshold 
of the same, overpowered by the presence of the Son of Mary, 
who was married to a carpenter — overpowered by the presence 
of the God of the whole earth, who v/rote the music for the 
great organ of the spheres, after he had created them to play 
the same.” Such was the calling of the clergyman, as Mr. 
Fuller saw it. Rather a lofty one, and simply a true one. If 
the clergyman cannot rouse men to seek his God and their 
God, if he can only rest in his office, which becomes false the 
moment he rests in it, being itself for a higher end ; if he has 
no message from the infinite to quicken the thoughts that 
cleave to the dust, the sooner he takes to grave-digging or any 
other honest labor, the sooner will he get into the kingdom of 
heaven, and the higher will he stand in it. But now came the 
question — from the confluence of all these considerations. 

Why should the church be for Sundays only ? And of all 


Mr, Fuller in his Church, 


211 


places in the world, what place wanted a week-day reminder 
of truth, of honesty, of the kingdom of heaven, more than 
London ? Why should the churches be closed all the week, 
to the exclusion of the passers-by, and open on the Sunday to 
the weariness of those who entered ? Might there not be too 
much of a good thing on the Sunday, and too little of it on a 
week-day ? ” Again Mr. Fuller said to himself, What is a 
parson ? ’’ and once more he answered himself, that he was a 
man to keep the windows of heaven clean, that its light might 
shine through upon men below. What use, then, once more, 
could he make of the church of St. Amos ? 

And again, why should the use of any church be limited to 
the Sunday ? Men needed religious help a great deal more 
on the week-day than on the Sunday. On the Sunday, sur- 
rounded by his family, his flowers, his tame animals, his 
friends, a man necessarily, to say the least of it, thinks less of 
making great gains, is more inclined to the family view of 
things generally ; whereas, upon the week-day, he is in the 
midst of the struggle and fight ; it is catch who can, then, 
through all the holes and corners, highways and lanes of the 
busy city : what would it not be then if he could strike a five 
minutes’ — yea, even a one minute’s — silence into the heart of 
the uproar ? if he could entice one vessel to sail from the 
troubled sea of the streets, shops, counting-houses, into the 
quiet haven of the church, the doors of whose harbor stood 
ever open ? There the wind of the world would be quiet be- 
hind them. His heart swelled within him as he thought of 
sitting there keeping open door of refuge for the storm-tossed, 
the noise-deafened, the crushed, the hopeless. He would not 
trouble them with many words. There should be no long prayers. 

But,” thought he, as often as one came in, I would read 
the collect for the day ; I would soothe him with comfort out 
of Handel or Mendelssohn, I would speak words of healing for 
the space of three minutes. I would sit at the receipt of such 
custom. I would fish for men — not to make churchmen of 
them — not to get them under my thumb ” — (for Mr. Fuller 
used such homely phrases sometimes that certain fledgling 
divines feared he was vulgar) — not to get them under the 
Church’s thumb, but to get them out of the hold of the devil, 
to lead them into the presence of Him who is the Truth, and 
so can make them free.” 

Therefore he said to himself that his church, instead of 
accumulating a weary length of service on one day, should be 
open every day, and that there he would be ready for any soul 


212 


Guild Court 


upon wliicli a flash of silence had burst through the clouds 
that ever rise from the city life and envelop those that have 
their walk therein. 

It was not long before his cogitations came to the point of 
action ; for with men of Mr. Fuller’s kind all their meditations 
have action for their result : he opened his church — set the 
door to the wall, and got a youtli to whom he had been of 
service, and who was an enthusiast in music, to play about 
one o’clock, when those who dined in the city began to go in 
search of their food, such music as might possibly waken the 
desire to see what was going on in the church. For he said to 
himself that the bell was of no use now, for no one would heed 
it ; but that the organ might fulfill the spirit of the direction 
that ‘‘the curate that ministereth in every parish church shall 
say the morning and evening prayer — where he ministereth, 
and shall cause a bell to be tolled thereunto a convenient time 
before he begins, that the people may come to hear God’s 
word and to pray with him.” 

Over the crowded street, over the roar of omnibuses, carts, 
wagons, cabs, and all kinds of noises, rose the ordered sounds 
of consort. Day after day, day after day, arose the sounds of 
hope and prayer ; and not a soul in the streets around took 
notice of the same. Why should they ? The clergy had lost 
their hold of them. They believed that the clergy were given 
to gain and pleasure just as much as they were themselves. 
Those even of the passers-by who were ready to acknowledge 
worth where they saw it, were yet not ready to acknowledge 
the probability of finding it in the priesthood ; for their expe- 
rience, and possibly some of their prejudices, were against it. 
They were wrong ; but who was to blame for it ? The clergy 
of the eighteenth century, because so many of them were 
neither Christians nor gentlemen ; and the clergy of the pres- 
ent century, because so many of them are nothing but gentle- 
men — men ignorant of life, ignorant of human needs, ignorant 
of human temptations, yea, ignorant of human aspirations ; 
because in the city pulpits their voice is not uplifted against 
city vices — against speculation, against falsehood, against 
money-loving, against dishonesty, against selfishness ; because 
elsewhere their voices are not uplifted against the worship of 
money and rank and equipage ; against false shows in dress 
and economy* ; against buying and not paying ; against envy 
and emulation ; against eifeminacy and mannishness ; against 
a morality which consists in discretion. Oh ! for the voice of 
a St. Paul or a St. John ! But it would be of little use : 


Mr, Fuller in his Church, 


213 


such men would have small chance of being heard. They 
would find the one-half of Christendom so intent upon saving 
souls instead of doing its duty, that the other half thought it 
all humbug. The organ sounded on from day to day, and no 
one heeded. 

But Mr. Fuller had the support of knowing that there were 
clergymen east and west who felt with him ; men who, how- 
ever much he might differ from them in the details of belief, 
yet worshiped the Lord Christ, and believed him to be the 
King of men, and the Saviour of men whose sins were of the 
same sort as their own, though they had learned them in the 
slums, and nob at Oxford or Cambridge. He knew that there 
were greater men, and better workers than himself, among the 
London clergy ; and he knew that he must work like them, 
after his own measure and fashion, and not follow the multi- 
tude. And the organ went on playing — I had written pray- 
ing — for I was thinking of what our Lord said, that men 
ought always to pray, and not to faint. 

At last one day, "about a quarter past one o’clock, a man 
came into the church. Mr. Fuller, who sat in the reading- 
A and praying to God, lifted up his 



passing, and, having heard the 


organ, thought he would just look in and see what was doing 
in the church. For this church was a sort of link between 
him and his daughter now that she was away. 

The moment he entered Mr. Fuller rose, and knelt, and 
began to read the collect for the day, in order that Mr. Kitely 
might pray with him. As soon as his voice arose the organ, 
which was then playing very softly, ceased ; Mr. Kitely knelt, 
partly, it must be allowed, out of regard for Mr. Fuller ; the 
organist came down and knelt beside him ; and Mr. Fuller 
went on with the second and third collects. After this he 
read the Epistle and the Gospel for the foregoing Sunday, and 
then he opened his mouth and spoke — for not more than three 
minutes, and only to enforce the lesson. Then he kneeled 
and let his congregation depart with a blessing. Mr. Kitely 
rose and left the chapel, and the organist went back to his 
organ. 

Now all this was out of order. But was it as much out of 
order as the omission of prayer altogether, which the Church 
enjoins shall be daily ? Times had changed : with them the 
order of prayer might possibly be changed without offense. 
At least Mr. Fuller was not. such a slave to the letter as to 


214 


Guild Court, 


believe that not to pray at all was better than to alter the form 
by choice of parts. And although in the use of prayers the 
Church had made great changes upon what had been first 
instituted, he did not care to leave present custom for the 
sake merely of reverting to that which was older. He had no 
hope of getting business men to join in a full morning service — 
even such as it was at first — upon any week-day. 

Mr. Kitely dropped in again before long, and again Mr. 
Fuller read the collect and went through the same form of 
worship. Thus he did every time any one appeared in the 
church, which was very seldom for the first month or so. But 
he had some friends scattered about the city, and when they 
knew of his custom they would think of it as they passed his 
church, until at length there were very few days indeed upon 
which two or three persons did not drop in and join in the 
collects. Epistle, and Gospel. To these he always spoke for a 
few minutes, and then dismissed them with the blessing. 


CHAPTEK XXXI. 

A DKEARY ONE. 

'‘Couldn’t you get a holiday on Saturd^, Tom?” said 
Mr. Worboise. “I mean to have one, and I should like to 
take you with me.” 

“ I don’t know, father,” answered Tom, who did not regard 
the proposal as involving any great probability of enjoyment ; 
“ my holiday is coming so soon that I should not like to ask 
for it, especially as Mr. Stopper — ” 

“What about Mr. Stopper? Not over friendly, eh? He 
is not a bad fellow, though, is Stopper. Pll ask for you, if 
you like that better.” 

“ I would much rather you wouldn’t, father.” 

“Pooh, pooh ! nonsense, man ! It’s quite a different thing 
if I ask for it, you know.” 

Thomas made no further objection, for he had nothing at 
hand upon which to ground a fresh one ; nor, indeed, could 
he well have persisted in opposing what seemed a kind wish of 
his father. It was not, however, merely because they had 
little to talk about, and that Thomas always felt a considerable 


215 


A Dreary One, 

restraint in his father’s presence — a feeling not very uncom- 
mon to young men — hut he lived in constant dread of some- 
thing coming to light about Lucy. He feared his father much 
more than he loved him ; not tnat he had ever been hardly 
treated by him ; not that he had ever even seen him in a pas- 
sion, for Mr. Worboise had a very fair command of his tem- 
per ; it was the hardness and intiexibility read upon his face 
from earliest childhood, that caused fear thus to overlay love. 
If a father finds that from any cause such is the case, he ought 
at once to change his system, and to require very little of any 
sort from his child till a nevr crop has begun to appear on the 
ill-farmed ground of that child’s heart. 

How the meaning of the holiday was this : Mr. Worboise 
had a city-client — a carpet-knight — by name Sir Jonathan 
Hubbard, a decent man, as the Scotch would say ; jolly, com- 
panionable, with a husky laugh, and frienaly unfinished coun- 
tenance in which the color was of more weight than the 
drawing — for, to quote Chaucer of the Franklin, a better 
emuned man,” either in regard of body or cellar, was no- 
where none; ’’upon Sir Jonathan’s sociability Mr. Worboise 
had founded the scheme of the holiday. Hot that he 
intended to risk any intrusion — Mr. Worboise was far too 
knowing a man for that. The fact was that he had appointed 
to wait upon his client at his house near Bickley on that day 
— at sucli an hour, however, as would afi'ord cover to his pre- 
tense of having brought his son out with him for a holiday in 
the country. It was most probable that Sir Jonathan would 
invite them to stay to dinner, and so to spend their holiday witli 
him. There was no Lady Hubbard alive, but there was a Miss 
Hubbard at the head of the house ; and hence Mr. Worboise’s 
strategy. Hor had he reckoned without his host, for if Sir 
Jonathan was anything he was hospitable ; things fell out as 
the lawyer had forehoped, if not foreseen. Sir J cnathan was 
pleased with the young fellow, would not allow him to wait 
companionless in the drawing-room till business was over — 
sent, on the contrary, for his daughter, and insisted on the 
two staying to dinner. He was one of those eaters and drink- 
ers who have the redeeming merit of enjoying good things a 
great deal more in good company. Sir Jonathan’s best port 
would seem to him to have something the matter with it if he 
had no one to share it. H, however, it had come to the ques- 
tion of a half-bottle or no companion, I would not answer for 
Sir Jonathan. But his cellar would stand a heavy siege. 

Thomas was seated in the drawing-room, which looked cold 


216 


Guild Court, 


and rather cheerless ; for no company was expected, and I 
presume Miss Hubbard did not care for color, save as reflected 
from her guests, seeing she had all her furniture in pinafores. 
How little some rich people know how to inherit the earth ! 
The good things of it they only uncover when they can make, 
not receive, a show. 

My dear reader — Ho, I will not take a liberty to which I 
have no right ; for perhaps were ho to see me he would not like 
me, and possibly were I to meet him I should not like him : I 
will rather say My Reader, without the impertinence or the 
pledge of an adjective— have a little patience while I paint 
Miss Hubbard just with the feather-end of my pen. I shall 
not be long about it. 

Thomas sat in the drawing-room, I say, feeling vacant, for 
he was only waiting, not expecting, when the door opened, 
and in came a fashionable girl — rather tall, handsome, bright- 
eyed, well-dressed, and yet— What was it that Thomas did not 
like about her ? Was it that she was dressed in the extreme 
of the fashion ? I will not go on to say what the fashion was, 
for before I had flnished writing it, it would have ceased to 
he the fashion ; and I will not paint my picture knowingly 
with colors that must fade the moment they are laid on. To 
be sure she had ridden the fashion till it was only fit for the 
knacker’s yard ; but she soon made him forget that, for she 
was clever, pleasant, fast— which means aflectedly unrefined, 
only her aficctation did no violence to fact — and altogether 
amusing. I believe what Thomas did not like about her at 
first was just all wherein she differed from Lucy. Yet he 
could not help being taken with her ; and when his father 
and Sir J onathan came into the room, the two were talking 
like a sewing-machine. 

Laura, my dear,” said the knight, have prevailed on 
Mr. Worboise to spend the day with us. You have no en- 
gagement, I believe ? ” 

‘^Fortunately, I have not, papa.” 

“ Well, I’ll just give orders about dinner, and then I’ll take 
our friends about the place. I want to show them my new 
stable. You had better come with us.” 

Sir Jonathan always ordered the dinner himseK. He 
thought no woman was capable of that department of the 
household economy. Laura put on her hat— beautiful with a 
whole king-fisher — and they went out into the grounds to the 
stable — trim as her drawing-room — where her favorite horse 
ftte appjgs out of her pocket; from the stable to the hot' 


217 


A Dreary One. 

houses and kitchen-garden ; then out at a back door into the 
lane — shadowy with trees — in which other colors than ^een 
were now very near carrying the vote of the leaves. Sweet 
scents of decay filled the air, waved about, swelling and sink- 
ing, on the flow of a west wind, gentle and soft, as if it had 
been fanned from the wings of spring when nearest to sum- 
mer. Great white clouds in a brilliant sky tempered the heat 
of the sun. What with the pure air, the fine light, and the 
handsome girl by his side, Thomas was in a gayer mood than 
had been his for many a long day. Miss Hubbard talked 
plenteously — about balls and theatres and Mansion House din- 
ners, about Rotten Row, and St. James’s ; and although of all 
these Thomas knew very little, yet being quick and sympa- 
thetic, he was able to satisfy the lady sufiiciently to keep her 
going. He was fortunate enough, besides, to say one or two 
clever things with which she was pleased, and to make an 
excellent point once in a criticism upon a girl they both knew, 
which, slighting her, conveyed, by no very occult implication, 
a compliment to Miss Hubbard. By the time they had reached 
this stage of acquaintanceship, they had left stout Sir Jona- 
than and Mr. Worboise far behind ; but Miss Hubbard was not 
in the least danger of being made uncomfortable by any 
squeamish notions of propriety ; and, having nothing more 
amusing to do, and being out already, she proposed that they 
should go home by a rather longer road, which would lead them 
over a hill whence they would get a good view of the country. 

Do you like living in the country. Miss Hubbard ? ” 

Oh f dear no. London for me. I can’t tell what made 
papa come to this dull place.” 

‘^The scenery is very lovely, though.” 

People say so. I’m sure I don’t know. Scenery wasn’t 
taught where I went to school.” 

Were you taught horses there ?” asked Thomas, slyly. 

Ho. That comes by nature. Do you know I won this 
bracelet in a handicap last Derby ?” she said, showing a very 
fine arm as well as bracelet, though it w^as only the morning, 
so-called. 

Miss Plubbard had no design upon Thomas. How could she 
have ? She knew nothing about him. She would have done 
the same with any gentleman she liked well enough to chatter 
to. And if Thomas felt it and thought that Laura Hubbard 
was more entertaining than sober Lucy Burton, he made up to 
Lucy for it in his own idea by asserting to himself that, after 
all, she was far handsomer than Miss Hubbard, handsome as 


218 


Guild Court 


she was. Yet I should never think of calling Lucy handsome. 
She was lovely — almost beautiful, too. Handsome always in- 
dicates more or less vulgarity — no, I mean commonness— in 
my ears. And certainly, whatever she might be capable of, 
had she been blessed with poverty. Miss Hubbard was as com- 
mon as she was handsome. Thomas was fool enough to revert 
to BjTon to try his luck with that. She soon made him 
ashamed of showing any liking for such a silly thing as poetry. 
That piqued him as well, however. 

You sing, I suppose he said. 

Oh, 5^es, when I can’t help it — after dinner, sometimes.” 

Well, you sing poetry, don’t you ?” 

I don’t know. One must have some words or other just 
to make her open her mouth. I never know what they’re 
about. Why should I ? Nobody ever pays the least attention 
to them — or to the music either, except it be somebody that 
wants to marry you.” 

But why should I go further with the record of such talk ? 
It is not interesting to me, and, therefore, can hardly be so to 
my reader. Even if I had the art to set it forth aright, I hope 
I should yet hold to my jiresent belief, that nothing in Vt^hich 
the art is uppermost is worth the art expended upon 
it. 

Thomas was a little shocked at her coolness, certainly; but 
at the same time that very coolness seemed a challenge. Be- 
fore they had reached the house again, he was vexed to find 
he had made no impression upon Miss Hubbard. 

Farewell to such fencing. By the time he had heard her 
sing, and his father and he were on their way home again, I 
am glad to say that Thomas had had nearly enough of her. 
He thought her voice loud and harsh in speech, showy and dis- 
tressing in song, and her whole being bravura. The con- 
trasts in Lucy had come back upon him with a gush of memo- 
rial loveliness ; for, as I have said, she still held the fortress of 
his heart, and held it for its lawful owner. 

Scarcely were they seated in the railway carriage, of which 
they were the sole occupants, when the elder Worboise threw a 
shot across the bows of the younger. 

Well, Tom, my boy,” he said, rubbing his lawyer palms, 

how do you like Miss Hubbard ? ” 

Oh, very well, father,” answered Thomas, indifferently. 

She’s a very jolly sort of girl.” 

She’s worth a hundred thousand,” said his father, in a tone 
that would have been dry but for a touch of slight resentment 


A Dreary One. 219 

at the indifference, possibly in the father^s view irreverence, 
with which he spoke of her. 

Girls?’’ asked Thomas. 

Pounds, ’’answered his father, clenchingly. 

Tom was noAv convinced of his father’s design in taking him 
out for a holiday. But even now he shrunk from confession. 
And how did he justify his sneaking now ? By saying to 
himself, Lucy can’t have anything like that money ; it won’t 
do. I must wait a more fitting opportunity.” But he thought 
he was very brave indeed, and actually seizing the hull of his 
father’s will by the horns when he ventured to take his mean- 
ing for granted, and replied : 

Why, father, a fellow has no chance with a girl like that, 
except he could ride like Assheton Smith, and knew all the 
slang of the hunting-field as well as the race-course.” 

A few children will cure her of that,” said his father. 

^^What I say is,” persisted Thomas, ‘^that she v/ould never 
look at a clerk.” 

If I thought you had any chance, I would buy you a com- 
mission in the Blues.” 

‘‘It wants blue blood for that,” said Thomas, v^hose heart, 
notwithstanding, danced in his bosom at the sound of commis- 
sion. Then, afraid lest he should lose the least feather of such 
a chance, he added hastily, “But any regiment would do.” 

“ I dare say,” returned his father, at right angles. “ When 
vou have made a little progress it will be time enough. She 
knows nothing about what you are now. Her father asked me, 
and I said I had not made up my mind yet what to do with 
you.” 

“ But, as I said before,” resumed Thomas, fighting some- 
what feebly, “ I haven’t a chance with her. She likes better 
to talk about horses than anything else, and I never had my 
leg across a horse’s back in my life — as you know, father,” ho 
added in a tone of reproach. 

“You mean, Tom, that I have neglected your education. 
Well, it shall be so no longer. You shall go to the riding- 
school on Monday night. It won’t be open to-morrow, I sup- 
pose.” 

I hope my reader is not so tired of this chapter as I am. It 
is bad enough to have to read such uninteresting things— but 
to have to write them ! The history that is undertaken must 
be written, however, v/hether the writer weary sometimes of 
his task, or the interest of his labor carry him lightly through 
to the close. 


220 


Guild Court, 


Thomas, wretched creature, dallied with his father’s pro- 
posal. He did not intend accepting it, but the very idea of 
marrying a rich, fashionable girl like that, with a knight for 
a father, flattered him. Still more was he excited at the no- 
tion, the very possibility of wearing a uniform. And what 
might he not do with so much money ? Then, when the thought 
of Lucy came, he soothed his conscience by saying to himself. 
See how much I must love her when I am giving up all this for 
her sake ! ” Still his thoughts hovered about what he said he 
was giving up. He went to bed on Sunday night, after a very 
pathetic sermon from Mr. Simon, with one resolution, and one 
only, namely, to go to the riding-school in Finsbury on Mon- 
day night. 

But something very different was waiting him. 


CHAPTEK XXXII. 

AN EXPLOSION. 

The whole ground under Thomas’s feet was honey-combed 
and filled with combustible matter. A spark dropped from 
any, even a loving hand, might send everything in the air. It 
needed not an enemy to do it. 

Lucy Burton had been enjoying a delightful season of re- 
pose by the sea-side. She had just enough to do with and for 
the two children to gain healthy distraction to her thinking. 
But her thinking as well as her bodily condition grew health- 
ier every day that she breathed the sea air. She saw more and 
more clearly than ever that things must not go on between 
her and Thomas as they were now going on. The very scent 
of the sea that came in at her bed-room window when she opened 
it in the morning, protested against it ; the wind said it was 
no longer endurable ; and the clear, blue autumn sky said it 
was a shame for his sake, if not for her own. She must not 
do evil that good might come ; she must not allow Thomas to 
go on thus for the sake even of keeping a hold of him for his 
good. She would give him one chance more, and if he did 
not accept it, she would not see him again, let come of it what 
would. In better mood still, she would say, Let God take 
care of that for him and me.” She had not written to him 


221 


An Explosion, 

since she came : that was one thing she conld ayoid. Now, 
she resolved that she would write to him just before her re- 
turn, and tell him that the first thing she would say to him 
when she saw him would be — had he told his father ? and 
upon his answer depended their future. But then the ques- 
tion arose, what address she was to put upon the letter ; for 
she was not willing to write either to his home or to the count- 
ing-house for evident reasons. Nor had she come to any con- 
clusion, and had indeed resolved to encounter him once more 
without having written, when from something rather inco- 
herently expressed in her grandmother’s last letter, which in- 
deed referred to an expected absence of Mr. Stopper, who was 
now the old lady’s main support, she concluded, hastily, I 
allow, that Mr. Worboise was from home, and that she might 
without danger direct a letter to Highbury. 

Through some official at the Court of Probate, I fancy that 
Mr. Worboise had heard of a caveat having been entered with 
reference to the will of Mr. Richard Boxall, deceased. I do 
not know that this was the case, but I think something must 
have occurred to irritate him against those whom he, with the 
law on his side, was so sorely tempted to wrong. I know that 
the very contemplation of wrong is sufficient to irritate, and 
that very grievously, against one thus contemplated ; but Lucy 
would have been a very good match, though not equal to Miss 
Hubbard, even in Mr. Worboise’s eyes. On the other hand, 
however, if he could but make up, not his mind, but his con- 
science, to take Boxall’s money, he would be so much the more 
likely to secure Miss Hubbard’s ; which, together with what he 
could leave him, would make a fortune over two hundred thou- 
sand — sufficient to make his son somebody. If Thomas had 
only spoken in time, that is, while his father’s conscience still 
spoke, and before he had cast eyes of ambition toward Sir 
Jonathan’s bankers ! All that was wanted on the devil’s side 
now was some personal quarrel with the rightful heirs ; and 
if Mr. Worboise did not secure that by means of Mr. Sargent’s 
caveat, he must have got it from what had happeued on the 
Monday morning. Before Thomas came down to breakfast, 
the postman had delivered a letter addressed to him, with the 
Hastings postmark upon it. 

When Thomas entered, and had taken his seat, on the heels 
of the usual cool Oood-morfiing , his father tossed the letter to 
him across the table, saying, more carelessly than he felt : 

Who’s your Hastings correspondent, Tom ?” 

The question, coming with the sight of Lucy’s handwriting, 


222 


Guild Court, 


made the eloquent blood surge into Tom’s face. His father 
was not in the way of missing anything that there was to see, 
and he saw Tom’s face. 

A friend of mine,” stammered Tom. Gone down for a 
holiday.” 

^^One of your fellow-clerks?” asked his father, with a 
dry significance that indicated the joossible neighborhood of 
annoyance, or worse. ‘‘1 thought the writing of doubtful 
gender.” 

For Lucy’s writing was not in the style of a field of corn in 
a hurricane : it had a few mistakable curves about it, though 
to the experienced eye it was nothing the less feminine that it 
did not affect feminity. 

^^No,” faltered Tom, ^^he’s not a clerk; he’s a — well, he’s 
a — teacher of music.” 

‘^Hm !” remarked Mr. Worboise. ‘‘How did you come to 
make his acquaintance, Tom ?” And he looked at his son 
with awful eyes, lighted from behind with growing suspicion. 

Tom felt his jaws growing paralyzed. His mouth was as dry 
as his hand, and it seemed as if his tongue would rattle in it 
like the clapper of a cracked bell if he tried to speak. But he 
had nothing to say. A strange tremor went through him from 
top to toe, making him conscious of every inch of his body at 
the very moment when his embarrassment might have been ex- 
pected to make him forget it altogether. His father kept his 
eyes fixed on him, and Tom’s perturbation increased every 
moment. 

“ I think, Tom, the best way out of your evident confusion 
will be to hand me over that letter,” said his father, in a cool, 
determined tone, at the same time holding out his hand to re- 
ceive it. 

Tom had strength to obey only because he had not strength 
to resist. But he rose from his seat, and would have left the 
room. 

“ Sit down, sir,” said Mr. Worboise, in a voice that revealed 
growing anger, though he could not yet have turned over the 
leaf to see the signature. In fact, he was more annoyed at his 
son’s pusillanimity than at his attempted deception. “ You 
make a soldier ! ” he added, in a tone of contempt that stung 
Tom — not to the heart, but to the backbone. When he had 
turned the leaf and saw the signature, he rose slowly from his 
chair and walked to the window, folding the letter as he went. 
After communing with the garden for awhile, he turned 
again to the table and sat down. It was not Mr. Worboise’s 


An Explosion, 223 

way to go into a passion when he had anything like reasonable 
warning that his temper was in danger. 

Tom, yon liave been behaving like a fool. Thank heaven, 
it’s not too late ! How could you be such a fool ? Believe me, 
it’s not a safe amusement to go trifling with girls this way.” 

With a great effort, a little encouraged by the quietness of 
his father’s manner, Tom managed to say, “I v/asn’t trifling.” 

^^Do you mean to tell me,” said his father, with more stern- 
ness than Tom had ever known him assume — ^^do you mean 
to tell me,” he repeated, that you have come under any 
obligation to this girl ? ” 

Yes, I have, father.” 

You fool ! A dress-maker is no fit match for you.” 

She’s not a dress-maker,” said Tom, with some energy, for 
he was beginning to grow angry, and that alone could give a 
nature like his courage in such circumstances ; she’s a lady, 
if ever there vvas one.” 

Stuff and nonsense !” said his father. Don’t get on 
your high horse with me. She’s a beggar, if ever there was 
one.” 

Tom smiled unbelievingly, or tried to smile ; for now his 
tremor, under the influence of his wholesome anger, had 
abated, and his breath began to come and go more naturally. 
A little more, and he would feel himself a hero, stoutly de- 
fending his lady-love, fearless of consequences to himself. But 
he said nothing more just yet. 

You know better than I do, you think, you puppy ! I tell 
you she’s not worth a penny — no, nor her old witch of a grand- 
mother, either. A pretty mess you’ve made of it ! You just 
sit down and tell the poor girl — it’s really too bad of you, 
Tom ! — that you’re sorry you’ve been such a confounded fool, 
but there’s no help for it.” 

Why should I say that ? ” 

Because it’s true. By all that’s sacred !” said Mr. Wor- 
boise, with solemn fierceness, ^‘you give up that girl, or you 
give up me. Hot that your father is anything to you : but I 
swear, if you carry on with that girl, you shall not cross my 
door as long as you do ; and not a penny you shall have out of 
my pocket. You’ll have to live on your salary, my fine fellow, 
and peril aps that’ll bring down your proud stomach a bit. By 
Jove ! You may starve for me. Come, my boy,” he added 
with sudden gentleness, don’t be a fool.” 

Whether Mr. Worboise meant all he said, I cannot tell, but 
at least he meant Thomas to believe that he did. And Thomas 


224 


Guild Court, 


did believe it. All the terrible contrast between a miserable 
clerkship, with lodging as well as food to be provided, and a 
commission in the army with unlimited pocket-money, and the 
very name of business forgotten, rose before him. A conflict 
began within him which sent all the blood to the surface of his 
body, and made him as hot now as he had been cold just be- 
fore. He again rose from his seat, and this time his father, 
who saw that he had aimed well, did not prevent him from 
leaving the room. He only added as his son reached the door, 

Mark what I say, Tom : I mean it; and when I mean a 
thing, it’s not my fault if it’s not done. You can go to the 
riding-school to-night, or you can look out for a lodging suit- 
able to your means. I should recommend Wapping.” 

Thomas stood on tlie heel of one foot and the toes of the 
other, holding the handle of the door in his hand till his 
father had done speaking. He then left the room, without 
reply, closed the door behind him, took his hat and went out. 
He was half way to London before he remembered that he had 
left Lucy’s letter in his father’s hands and had not even read 
it. This crowned his misery. He dared not go back for it ; 
but the thought of Lucy’s words to him being at the mercy of 
his hard-hearted father moved him so, that he almost made 
up his mind never to enter the house again. And then how 
Lucy must love him when he had given up everything for her 
sake, knowing quite well, too, that she was not going to have 
any fortune after all ? But he did not make up his mind ; he 
never had made up his mind yet ; or, if he had, he unmade it 
again upon meeting with the least difficulty. And now his 
whole state of man” was in confusion. He went into the 
counting-house as if he had been walking in a dream, sat down 
to his desk mechanically, droned through the forenoon, had 
actually only a small appetite for his dinner, and when six 
o’clock arrived, and the place was closed, knew no more 
what he was going to do than when he started out in the 
morning. 

But he neither went to the riding-school in Finsbury, nor to 
look for a lodging in Wapping. 


Down at Last 


225 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

DOW:^ AT LAST. 

Ik tlio very absence of purpose, be strolled up Guild Court 
to call upon Molken, who was always at home at that hour. 

Molken welcomed him even more heartily than usual. After 
a few minutes’ conversation they went out together : having 
no plan of his own, Thomas was in the hands of any one who 
had a plan of which he formed a part. They betook them- 
selves to one of their usual haunts. It was too early yet for 
play, so they called for some refreshment, and Thomas drank 
more than he had ever drunk before, not with any definite 
idea of drowning the trouble in his mind, but sipping and 
sipping from mere restlessness and the fluttering motion of a 
will unable to act. 

It was a cold evening. An autumn wind which had dropped 
in its v/ay all the now mournful memories of nature, and was 
itself the more dreaiy therefore, tumbled a stray billow now 
and then through the eddies of its chimney-rocks and house- 
top-shoals upon the dirty window of the little dreary den in 
which they sat, drinking their gin and water at a degraded 
card-table whose inlaid borders v/ere not yet quite obscured by 
the filth caked upon it from greasy fingers and dusters dirtier 
than the smoke tiiey would remove. They talked — not about 
gaming — no : they talked about politics and poetry ; about 
Goethe and Heine ; and Molken exerted all his wit and sym- 
pathy to make himself agreeable to his dejected friend, urging 
him to rise above his dejection by an effort of the will ; using, 
in fact, mucli the same arguments as Lady Macbeth when she 
tried to jiersuade her husband that the whole significance of 
things depended on how he chose to regard them : These 
things must not bo thought after these ways.” Thomas, hov,^- 
ever, had not made a confidant of Molken. He had only 
dropped many words that a man like him would not fail to 
piece together into some theory regarding the condition and 
circumstances of one of whom he meant to make gain. 

At length, what between Molken’s talk and the gin, a flame 
of excitement began to appear in Thomas’s weary existence ; 
and almost at the same instant a sound of voices and footsteps 
was heard below ; they came up the stair ; the door of the 
room opened ; and several fellows entered, all eager for the 
excitement of play as a drunkard for his drink, all talking, 
15 


226 


Guild Court 


laughing, chaffing. A blast of wind laden with rain from a 
laboring cloud which had crept up from the west and dark- 
ened the place, smote on the windows, and soft yet keen the 
drops pattered on the glass. All outside was a chaos of windy 
mist and falling rain. They called for lights, and each man 
ordered his favorite drink ; the face of Nature, who was doing 
her best to befriend them, was shut out by a blind of green 
and black stripes stained with yelloAV ; two dirty packs of cards 
were produced — not from the pocket of any of the company, 
for none of the others would have trusted such a derivation, 
but from the archives of the house ; and, drawing round the 
table, they began to offer their sacrifice to the dreary excite- 
ment for whose presence their souls had been thirsting all the 
day. Two of them besides Molken were foreigners, one of them 
apparently a German, a very quiet and rather a gentlemanly 
man, between whom and Molken, however, if Thomas had 
been on the outlook, he might, I fancy, have seen certain 
looks of no good omen interchanged. 

They began playing very gently — and fairly no doubt ; and 
Thomas for some time went on winning. 

There was not even the pretense of much money among 
them. Probably a few gold pieces was the most any of them 
had. When one of them had made something at this sort of 
small private game, he would try his luck at one of the more 
public tables, I presume. As the game went on and they 
grew more excited, they increased their stakes a little. Still 
they seemed content to go on for a little. Thomas and Mol- 
ken were partners, and still they won. Gradually the points 
were increased, and betting began. Thomas began to lose 
and lose, of course, more rapidly than he had won. He had 
had two or three pounds in his pocket when he began, but all 
went now — the last of it in a bet on the odd trick. He bor- 
rowed of Molken — ^lost ; borrowed and lost, still sipping his 
gin and water, till Molken declared he had himself lost every- 
thing. Thomas laid his watch on the table, for himself and 
Molken — it was not of great value — a gift of his mother only. 
He lost it. What was to be done ? He had one thing 
left — a ring of some value which Lucy had given him to wear 
for her. It had belonged to her mother. He pulled it off 
his finger, showed that it was a rose diamond, and laid it on 
the table. It followed the rest. He rose, caught up his hat, 
and, as so many thousands of gamblers have done before, 
rushed out into the rain and the darkness. 

Through all the fumes of the gin which had begun to render 


Dotvn at Last 


227 


^^the receipt of reason a limbeck only,” the thought gleamed 
upon his cloudy mind that he ought to have received his quar- 
ter’s salary that very day. If he had had that, what might he 
not have done ? It was his, and yet he could not have it. 
His mind was all in a confused despair, ready to grasp at any- 
thing that oflered him a chance of winning back what he had 
lost. If he had gone home and told his father — but he was not 
capable of reasoning out anything. Lucy’s ring was his chief 
misery : so much must be said for him. Something — he did 
not know what — drove him toward Guild Court. I believe, 
though in his after reflections he could not identify the im- 
pulse, that it was the same which he obeyed at last. Before 
he knew where he was going, he was at Mrs. Boxall’s door. 
He found it ajar, and walked up the stair to the sitting-room. 
That door too was open, and there was no one there. But he 
saw at a glance, from the box on the floor and the shawl on 
the table, that Lucy had returned, and he supposed that her 
grandmother had gone up stairs with her. The same moment 
his eyes sought the wall, and there hung two keys. They 
were the keys of the door of communication and of the safe. 

Mr. Stopper, wise in his generation, sought, as we have 
seen, to stand as well as possible with the next of kin and 
supposed heir to Mr. Boxall, namely, his mother. He had, 
therefore, by degrees, made himself necessary to her, in her 
fancy at least, by giving her good advice till she thought she 
could not do without his wisdom. Nor that alone ; he had 
pleased her by a hundred little acknowledgments of her suzer- 
ainty, especially grateful to one who loved power as Mrs. Box- 
all did. Among the rest, one evening, after locking up the 
counting-house, he went to her with those two keys in his 
hand, and kept playing with them till he was taking his leave 
— then, as if a sudden thought had struck him, said : 

^^But I don’t see the use of troubling myself with these 
keys. I may as well hang them up somewhere,” he added, 
looking about for a place. 

I don’t know that it’s wise to leave them here,” objected 
Mrs. Boxall. 

Oh ! don’t be uneasy, ma’am,” returned Mr. Stopper. 

You mustn’t suppose we leave a mint of money in the house 
at night. If we did, you wouldn’t be safe either. It’s only 
what comes in after bankiug-hours — a matter of ten pounds, 
or thereabouts, sometimes more, sometimes less. The safe’s 
more for the books — in case of Are, you know.” 

^^I hope there’s no danger of that, Mr. Stopper.” 


228 


Guild Court 


Not as long as the neighbors don’t take fire. I see every 
spark out when we have a fire before I turn my back on the 
premises. Indeed, I’m rather more careful over the fire than 
the cash-box.” 

In the meantime Mr. Stopper had discovered a brass-headed 
nail in the wall, and thereupon he had hung the keys, and 
there he had hung them every evening since, and there they 
huner at this moment when Thomas’s eyes went in search of 
them. 

When he considered the whole affair afterward, Thomas 
thought he must have been driven by a demon. He hardly 
knew whether he was thinking over or doing the thing that 
was present to him. No thought of resisting it as a tempta- 
tion arose to meet it. He knew that there was eleven pounds 
odd shillings in the cash box, for he had seen one of the other 
clerks count it ; he knew that the cash-box was in the safe ; 
he knew that that was the key of it ; he knew that the firm 
owed him twenty-five pounds ; he could rei)lace it again before 
the morning; and while thinking all this he was doing the 
effect of his thinking,” almost without knowing it : he found 
himself standing before the safe with the key already in the 
lock, and the cold handle of the door in his hand. But it was 
dark all around and within him. In there alone lay light and 
hope. In another moment the door was open, and the con- 
tents of the cash-box — gold, silver, copper — in his pocket. It 
is possible that even then he might have restored the money if 
he had not heard the step of the policeman at the street-door. 
He left the safe open as it was, with the key in it, and sped 
from the house. 

Nothing more marked itself on his memory till ho reached 
the room where he had left his friends. It was dark. There 
was no one there. They had gone to try their luck in a more 
venturous manner, where rogue met rogue, and fortune was 
umpire rather than cunning. He knew their haunts, followed 
and found them. But his watch and ring were gone. They 
told him, however, where they were. He would go and seek 
them to-morrow. Meantime he would play. He staked and 
lost — lost, won, won again ; doubled his stakes, won still ; and 
when he left the house it was with a hundred pounds in his 
pocket and a gray dawn of wretchedness in his heart. 


Mrs, Boxall and Mr, Stopper, 


229 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

MRS. BOXALL AXD MR. STOPPER. 

Lucy was not np stairs with her grandmother when Thomas 
went into the room. She had arrived some time before, and 
had run across to the bookseller’s to put Mattie to bed, accord- 
ing to promise, leaving the door just ajar that she might not 
trouble her grandmother to come down and open it for her. 
She had come home hoping against hope that Thomas must 
by this time have complied, in some way or other, with her 
request — must have written to his father, or, at least, so posi- 
tively made up his mind to tell him on his return, that he 
would be at the station to meet her with the assurance, or 
would appear in Guild Court some time during the evening 
with a response to her earnest appeal. When she had put the 
child to bed, she lingered a few moments with the bookseller 
in his back parlor, for the shop was shut up, telling him about 
Mattie, and listening to what little bits of news the worthy 
man had to impart in return. Their little chat ran something 
in this Vv^ay : 

And how have you been, Mr. Kitely ? ” 

Oh, among the middlins, miss, thank you. How’s your- 
self been ? ” 

Quite well, and no wonder.” 
don’t know that, miss, with two young things a pullin’ 
of you all ways at once. ‘ I hope Mattie wasn’t over and above 
troublesome to you.” 

She was no trouble at all. You must have missed her, 
though.” 

I couldn’t ha’ believed how I’d miss her. Do you know 
the want of her to talk to made me do what I ain’t done for 
twenty year ? ” 

^"What’s that, Mr. Kitely ? Go to church of a Sunday ?” 

More than that, miss,” answered the bookseller, laughing— 
a little sheepishly. Would you believe it of me ? I’ve been 
to church of a week-day more than once. Ha ! ha ! But 
then it wasn’t a long rigmarole, like — ” 

You mustn’t talk about it like that — to me, you know, 
Mr. Kitely.” 

I beg your pardon, miss. I only meant he didn’t give us 
a Sundayful of it, you know. I never could ha’ stood that. 
We had just a little })rayer, .and a little chapter, and a little 


230 


Guild Court, 


sermon — good sense, too, upon my word. I know I altered a 
price or two in my catalogue when I come home again. I 
don’t know as I was right, but I did it, just to relieve my 
mind and make believe I was doin’ as the minister told me. 
If they was all like Mr. Fuller, I don’t know as I should ha’ 
the heart to say much agen them.” 

So it’s Mr. Fuller’s church you’ve been going to ? I’m so 
glad ! How often has he service, then ? ” 

‘‘Every day, miss. Think o’ that. It don’t take long, 
though, as I tell you. But why should it ? If there is any 
good in talking at all, it comes more of being the right thing 
than the muchness of it, as my old father used to say — for he 
was in the business afore me, miss, though I saw a great deal 
more o’ the world than ever he did afore I took to it myself — 
says he, ‘ It strikes me, Jacob, there’s more for your money in 
some o’ those eighteen mos, if you could only read ’em, than 
in some o’ them elephants. I ha’ been a watchin’,’ says he, 
‘ the sort o’ man that buys the one and that buys the tother. 
When a little man with a shabby coat brings in off the stall 
one o’ them sixpenny books in Latin, that looks so barbarious 
to me, and pops it pleased like into the tail of his coat — as if 
he meant to have it out again the minute he was out of the 
shop — then I thinks there’s something in that little book — 
and something in that little man,’ says father, miss. And so 
I stick up for the sermons and the little prayers, miss. I’ve 
been thinking about it since ; and I think Mr. Fuller’s right 
about the short prayers. They’re much more after the man- 
ner of the Lord’s Prayer anyhow. I never heard of anybody 
getting tired before that was over. As you are fond of church, 
miss, you’d better drop into Mr. Fuller’s to-morrow mornin’. 
If you go once, you’ll go again.” 

Long after, Lucy told Mr. Fuller what the bookseller had 
said, and it made him think yet again whether our long pray- 
ers — services, as we call them, forsooth — are not all a mistake, 
and closely allied to the worship of the Pagans, who think 
they shall be heard for their much speaking. 

She went out by the side-door into the archway. As she 
opened it, a figure sped past her, fleet and silent. She started 
back. Why should it remind her of Thomas ? She had 
scarcely seen more in the darkness than a deeper darkness in 
motion, for she came straight from the light. 

She found the door not as she left it. 

“Has Thomas been here, grannie?” she asked, with an 
alarm she could not account for. 


231 


Mrs, BoxdH and Mr, Stopper, 

No, indeed. He has favored us with little of his com- 
pany this many a day,’’ answered grannie, speaking out of the 
feelings which had gradually grown from the seeds sown by 
Stopper. The sooner you’re off with him, my dear, the bet- 
ter, for you ! ” she eontinued. ^^He’s no good, I doubt.” 

With a terrible sinking at the heart, Lucy heard her grand- 
mother’s words. But she would fight Thomas’s battles to the 
last. 

^‘If ever that man dares to say a word against Thomas in 
my hearing,” she said, I’ll — I’ll — I’ll leave the room.” 

0 most lame and impotent conclusion I But Lucy carried 
it farther than her words ; for when Mr. Stopper entered the 
next morning, with a face scared into the ludicrous, she, with- 
out even waiting to hear what he had to say, though she fore- 
boded evil, rose at once and left the room. Mr. Stopper stood 
and looked after her in dismayed admiration ; for Lucy was 
one of those few whose anger even is of such an unselfish and un- 
spiteful nature, that it gives a sort of piquancy to their beautj^ 

“ I hope I haven’t offended the young lady,” said Mr. Stop- 
per, with some concern. 

‘‘Never you mind, Mr. Stopper. I’ve been giving her a 
hint about Thomas, and she’s not got over it yet. Never you 
mind her. It’s me you’ve got to do with, and I ain’t got no 
fancies.” 

“ It’s just as well, perhaps, that she did walk herself away.” 
said Mr. Stopper. 

“ You’ve got some new^, Mr. Stopper. Sit ye down. Will 
you have a cup o’ tea ? ” 

“ No, thank you. Where’s the keys, Mrs. Boxall ? ” 

The old lady looked up at the wall, then back at Mr. Stopper. 

“ Why, go along ! There they are in your own hand.” 

“ Yes ; but where do you think I found them ? — Hanging 
in the door of the safe, and all the money gone from the cash- 
box. I haven’t got over the shock of it yet.” 

“Why, good heavens ! Mr. Stopper,” said the old lady, who 
was rather out of temper with both herself and Lucy, “vou 
don’t think Pve been a-robbing of your cash-box, do you ? ’ 

Mr. Stopper laughed aloud. 

“ Well, ma’am, that would be a roundabout way of coming 
by your own. I don’t think we could make out a case against 
you if you had. Not quite. But, seriously, who came into 
the house after I left ? I hung the keys on that wall with mv 
own hands.” 

“ And I saw them there when I went to bed,” said Mrs. 


232 Guild Court 

Boxall, making a general impression ground for an individual 
assertion. 

Then somebody must have come in after you had gone to 
•bed — some one that knew the place. Did you find the street 
door had been tampered with ? 

‘‘ Lucy opened it this morning.” 

Mrs. Boxall went to the door and called her grand-daughter. 
Lucy came, thinking Mr. Stopper must be gone. When she 
saw him there, she would have left the room again, but her 
grandmother interfered. 

Come here, child,” she said, peremptorily. Was the 
house-door open when you went dov/n this morning ? ” 

Lucy felt her face grow pale with the vaguest foreboding — 
associated with the figure which had run through the archv/ay 
and her finding the door open. But she kept her self-com- 
mand. 

No, grannie. The door was shut as usual.” 

‘^Did nobody call last night ?” asked Mr. Stopper, who had 
his suspicions, and longed to have them confirmed in order to 
pay off old scores at once. 

‘^Nobody; that I’ll give my word for,” answered Mrs. Box- 
all. 

A most unaccountable thing, ladies,” said Stopper, rub- 
bing his forehead as if he would fain rouse an idea in his 
bafiied brain. 

Have you lost much money ? ” asked the old lady. 

Oh, it’s not the money ; that’s a flea-bite. But justice, 
you know — that’s the point,” said Mr. Stopper, with his face 
full of meaning. 

Do you suspect any one, Mr. Stopper ?” 
do. I found sometliing on the floor. If Mr. Worboise 
were come,” he continued, looking hard at Lucy, he might 
be able to help us out with it. Sharp fellow that. But it’s an 
hour past his time, and he’s not made his appearance yet. I 
fear he’s been taking to fast ways lately. I’ll just go across the 
court to Mr. Molken, and see if he knows anything about 
him.” 

You’ll oblige said Lucy, who was cold to the very 
heart, but determined to keep up, by doing nothing of the 
sort. I will not have his name mentioned in the matter. 
Does any one but yourself know of the — ^the robbery, Mr. Stop- 
per ? ” 

‘‘Not a soul, miss. I wouldn’t do anything till I had been 
to you. I was here first, as I generally am.” 


233 


Mrs, BoxaU and Mr^ Stcrpper, 

y Then, if I am to have anything to say at all,” she returned 
with dignity, ‘‘ let the matter rest in the mean time — at least 
till you have some certainty. If you don’t you will make sus- 
picion fall on the innocent. It might have been grannie or 
myself, for anything you can tell yet.” 

Highty-tighty, lass ! ” said her grandmother. We’re on 
our high horse, I believe.” 

Before she could say more, however, Lucy had left the 
room. She just managed to reach her bed, and fell fainting 
upon it. 

Money had evidently, even in the shadow it cast before it, 
wrought no good effect upon old Mrs. Boxall. The bond be- 
tween her and her grand-daughter was already weakened. She 
had never spoken thus to her till now. 

Never you mind what the wench says,” she went on to 
Stopper. ‘‘The money’s none of hers, and shan’t be except I 
please. You just do as you think proper, Mr. Stopper. If 
that young vagabond has taken the money, why you take him, 
and see what the law will say to it. The sooner our Lucy is 
shut of him the better for her — and may be for you too, Mr. 
Stopper,” added the old lady, looking insinuatingly at him. 

But whether the head clerk had any design upon Lucy or 
not, he seemed to think that her favor was of as much conse- 
quence as that of her grandmother. He might have reasoned 
in this way — that he could not expose Thomas without mak- 
ing Lucy his enemy, both from her regard to him and because 
of the disgrace that would come upon her by having her name as- 
sociated with his ; and Mrs. Boxall was old, and Lucy might take 
her place any day in the course of nature. Whereas, so long as 
he kept the secret and strengthened the conclusions against 
Thomas without divulging them, he had a hold over Lucy, 
even a claim upon her gratitude, he would say, which he 
might employ as he saw occasion, and as prudence should 
direct, holding his revenge still ready in his hands in case 
there should be nothing to be gained by foregoing it. There- 
fore, when the clerk in whose charge the money-box was, 
opened it, he found in it only a ticket with Mr. Stopper’s in- 
itials, and the sum abstracted in figures, by which it was im- 
plied that Mr. Stopper had taken the contents for his own 
use. So, although it seemed queer that he should have 
emptied it of the whole sum, even to the few coppers, there 
was nothing to be said, and hardly anything to be conjectured 
even. 

As Thomas did not make his appearance all day, not a 


234 


Chiild Court 


doubt remained upon Mr. Stopper’s mind that he had com- 
mited the robbery. But he was so well acquainted with the 
minutest details of the business that he knew very well that the 
firm was the gainer by Thomas’s absconding as nearly as pos- 
sible to the same amount that he had taken. This small alle- 
viation of Thomas’s crime, however, Mr. Stopper took no 
pains to communicate to Lucy, chuckling only over his own 
good fortune in getting rid of him so opportunely; for he 
would no longer stand in his way, even if he were to venture 
on making advances to Lucy ; she could never have anything 
more to do with a fellow who could be tried for burglary if he 
chose to apply for a warrant for his apprehension. 

Intending that his forbearance should have the full weight 
of obedience to her wishes, Mr. Stopper went up in the even- 
ing after the counting-house was closed. Lucy was not there. 
She had not left her room since the morning, and the old 
woman’s tenderness had revived a little. 

Perhaps you’d better not hang them keys up there, Mr. 
Stopper. I don’t care about the blame of them. I’ve had 
enough of it. There’s Lucy, poor dear, lying on her bed like 
a dead thing ; and neither bit nor sup passed her lips all day. 
Take your keys away with you, Mr. Stopper. I’ll have noth- 
ing more to do wi’ them, I can tell you. And don’t you go 
and take away that young man’s character, Mr. Stopper.” 

Indeed I should be very sorry, Mrs. Boxall. He hasn’t been 
here all day, but I haven’t even made a remark on his absence 
to any one about the place.” 

^‘That’s very right, Mr. Stopper. The young gentleman 
may be at home with a headache.” 

‘^Very likely,” answered Mr. Stopper, dryly. ^^Good- 
night, Mrs. Boxall. And as the keys must have an unpleas- 
ant look after what has happened. I’ll just put them in my 
pocket and take them home with me.” 

Ho ye that, Mr. Stopper. And good-night to you. And 
if the young man comes back to-morrow, don’t ’ee take no 
notice of what’s come and gone. If you’re sure he took it, 
you can keep it off his salary, with a wink for a warning, you 
know.” 


All right, ma’am,” said Mr. Stopper, taking his departure 
in less good humor than he showed. 

I will not say much about Lucy’s feelings. For some time 
she was so stunned by the blow as to be past conscious suffer- 
ing. Then commenced a slow oscillation of feeling : for one 
half hour, unknown to her as time, she would be declaring 


235 


Mattie Falls and Rises Again. 

him unworthy of occasioning her trouble ; for the next she 
would be accusing his attachment to her, and her own want 
of decision in not absolutely refusing to occupy the question- 
able position in which she found herself, as the combined 
causes of his ruin : for as ruin she could not but regard such a 
fall as his. She had no answer to her letter — heard nothing 
of him all day, and in the evening her grandmother brought 
her the statement of Mr. Stopper that Thomas had not been 
there. She turned her face away toward the wall, and her 
grandmother left her, grumbling at girls generally, and girls 
in love especially. Meantime a cherub was on its way toward 
her, bearing a little bottle of comfort under its wing. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

MATTIE FALLS AND EISES AGAIM. 

Mattie had expected Lucy to call for her in the forenoon 
and take her out to AVyvil Place to see Miriam. Spending 
the morning with her father in the shop, amidst mueh talk, 
conducted with the most respectful docility on the part of the 
father, and a good deal of condescending assertion on the part 
of the child, she had run out twenty times to look at the 
clock at St. Jacob’s ; and at length, finding that Lucy did not 
come, had run u]) and knocked at lier door, giving Mr. Spelt 
a promissory nod as she passed. Hearing from Mrs. Boxall, 
however, that Miss Burton was too tired to go out with 
her, she turned in some disappointment, and sought Mr. 
Spelt. 

‘‘Well, mother, how do you do she asked, perking up 
her little gray face, over which there was now a slight wash 
of rose-color, toward the watch-tower of the tailor. 

“ Quito well, Mattie. And you look well,” answered Mr. 
Spelt. 

“And I am well, I assure you ; better than I ever expected 
to be in this world, mother. I mean to come up beside you a 
bit. I want to tell you something.” 

“I don’t know, Mattie,” answered Mr. Spelt, with some em- 
barrassment. “ Is it anjdhing in particular ? ” 

“ In particular ! Well, I should think so,” returned Mattie, 


236 


Guild Court 


with a triumph just dashed with displeasure, for she had not 
’ ' " ' hesitation in accepting her advances 



‘I should think so. Then, low- 


ering her voice to a keen whisper, she added, I’ve been to 
see God in his own house.” 

‘^Been to church, have you ?” said Mr. Spelt. 

Now I am sorry to say that Spelt was behaving dishonestly — 
not from choice, but from embarrassment and fear springing 
from a false conscientiousness. And Mattie felt at once that 
Mr. Spelt was not behaving like himself. 

‘^No, Mr. Spelt,” she answered with dignity — ^bridling in- 
deed ; I’ve not been to church. You don’t call that God’s 
house, do you ? Them ! They’re nothing but little shops like 
your own, Mr. Spelt. But God’s house ! — Take me up, I say. 
Don’t make me shout such things in the open street. ” 

Thus adjured, Mr. Spelt could stand out no longer. He 
stooped over his threshold and lifted Mattie toward him. But 
the moment her head reached the level of his floor, she under- 
stood it all. In her old place in the corner sat the little de- 
moniac Poppie, clothed and in her right mind. A true ob- 
server, however, would have seen from her pale, thin face that 
possibly her quietude was owing more to weakness than to any 
revolution in her nature. 

‘‘Well!” said Mattie, with hauteur. “Will you set me 
down again, if you please, Mr. Spelt.” 

“I think, perhaps,” said the tailor, meekly, holding the 
child still suspended in the air, “I could find room for you 
both. The corner opposite the door there, Mattie,” he added, 
looking round suggestively in the direction of the spot sig- 
nified. 

“ Put me down,” insisted Mattie, in such a tone that Mr. 
Spelt dared not keep her in suspense any longer, but lowered 
her gently to the ground. All the time Poppie had been star- 
ing with great black eyes, which seemed to have grown much 
larger during her illness, and, of course, saying nothing. 

As soon as the soles of Mattie’s feet touched the ground, she 
seemed to gather strength like Antasus ; for instead of turning 
and walking away, with her head as high, morally considered, 
as that of any giant, she began to parley with the offending 
Mr. Spelt. 

“ I have heard, mother — Mr. Spelt — that you should be off 
with the old love before you’re on with the new. You never 
told me what you were about.” 

“ But you was away from home, Mattie.” 


237 


Mattie FoUs and Rises Again. 

You could have written. It would only have cost a penny. 
I shouldn’t have minded paying it ” 

“ Well, Mattie, shall I turn Poppie out ?” 

Oh ! I don’t want you to turn her out. You would say I 
drove her to the streets again.” 

Do you remember, Mattie, that you wouldn’t go to that 
good lady’s house because she didn’t ask Poppie, too. Do 
you ? ” 

A moment’s delay in the child’s answer revealed shame. 
But she was ready in a moment. 

Hers is a big house. That’s my own very comer.” 

Don’t you see how ill Poppie is ?” 

Well ! ” said the hard little thing, with a side nod of her 
head over the speaking corner of her mouth. 

Mr. Spelt began to be a little vexed. He took the upper 
hand now and came home to her. She was turning to go 
away, when he spoke in a tone that stopped her. But she 
stood with her back half turned toward him. 

‘^Mattie, do you remember the story Somebody told us 
about the ragged boy that came home again, and how his 
brother, with the good clothes on, was offended, and wouldn’t 
go in because he thought he was taking his place ? You’re 
behaving just the same as the brother with the good clothes.” 

I don’t know that. There’s some difference, I’m sure. I 
don’t think you’re telling the story right. I don’t think 
there’s anything about taking his place. I’ll just go and look. 
I can read it for myself, Mr. Spelt.” 

So saying, Mattie walked away to the house, with various 
backward tosses of the head. Mr. Spelt drew his head into 
his shell, troubled at Mattie’s naughtiness. Poppie stared at 
him, but said nothing, for she had nothing to say. 

When Mattie entered the shop, her father saw that some- 
thing was amiss with her. 

What’s the matter with my princess ?” he asked. 

^^Oh, nothing much,” answered Mattie, with tears in her 
eyes. I shall get over it, I dare say. Mr. Spelt has been 
very naughty,” she added, in a somewhat defiant tone ; and 
before her father could say anything more she had reached the 
stairs, and went to her own room. 

My reader must imagine her now taking down a huge fam- 
ily Bible her father had given lier for the sake of the large 
print. She lugs it along and heaves it upon her bed ; then, 
by a process known only to herself, finds tlie place, and begins 
to spell out the story once more, to discover whether the tailor 


238 


Guild Court 


has not garbled it to her condemnation. But, as she reads, 
the stoiy itself lays hold upon her little heart, and she finds a 
far greater condemnation there than she had found in her 
friend^s reproof. About half an hour after, she ran — Mattie 
seldom ran — ^past Mr. Spelt and Poppie, not venturing to look 
up, though, ere she came too near, the tailor could see the red 
eyes in the white face, and knocked at Mrs. BoxalFs door. 

Lucy was still lying on her bed when she heard little 
knuckles at her door, and having answered without looking 
round, felt, a moment after, a tiny hand steal into hers. She 
opened her eyes, and saw Mattie by her bedside. Nor was she 
too much absorbed in her own griefs to note that the child 
had hers, too. 

What is the matter with you, Mattie, my dear ?” she asked, 
in a faint voice. 

Mattie burst into tears — a rare proceeding with the princess. 
It was some moments before she could sob out : 

I’ve been so naughty. Miss Burton — so very naughty ! ” 

Lucy raised herself, sat on the side of the bed, and took the 
child’s hand. Mattie could not look up. 

^^I’m sorry to hear that, Mattie. What have you done ?” 

Such a shame. Poppie! Far country. Elder brother.” 

These were almost the only wo: " 



sobs of the poor child. Hence 


cause of her grief, and her advice must be general. 

‘‘ If you have done wrong to Poppie, or any one, you must 
go and tell her so, and try to make up for it.” 

Yes, I will, for I can’t bear it,” answered Mattie, begin- 
ning to recover herself. Think of doing the very same as 
the one I was so angry with when mother read the story I I 
couldn’t bear to see Poppie in my place in mother’s shop, and 
I was angry, and wouldn’t go in. But I’ll go now, as soon as 
I get my poor eyes dried.” 

Lucy was not able to say much to her, and Mattie was so 
taken up with her own repentance that she did not see that 
Lucy was in trouble, too. In a few minutes the child an- 
nounced her intention of going to Mr. Spelt at once, and left 
Lucy to her own thoughts. I will first tell how Mattie finished 
her repentance, and then return to Lucy. 

She walked right under Mr. Spelt’s door, and called aloud, 
but with a wavering voice : 

“Mother, take me up directly. I’m very sorry.” 

Over the threshold came a pair of arms, and Mattie was 
hoisted into the heaven of her repentant desire. As soon as 


Mattie Falls and Rises Again, 239 

she was in it she crawled on her hands and knees — eyen she 
could scarcely have stood in the place — toward Poppie. 

‘‘How do you do, prodigal she said, putting her arms 
round the bewildered Poppie, who had no more idea of what 
shp meant than a child born in heaven would have had. “ I’m 
very glad to see you home again. Put on this ring, and we’ll 
both be good children to mother there.” 

So saying, she took a penny ring, with a bit of red and two 
bits of green glass in it, from her finger, and put it upon Pop- 
pie’s, who submitted speechless, but was pleased with the glit- 
ter of the toy. She did not kiss in return, though : Poppie 
liked to be kissed, but she had not learned to kiss yet. 

“ Mother,” Mattie went on, “ I was behaving like — like — 
like — a wicked Pharisee and Sadducee. I beg your pardon, 
mother. I will be good. May I sit in the corner by the door ? ” 

“I think,” answered the little tailor, greatly moved, and 
believing in the wind that bloweth where it listeth more than 
ever he had believed before — “I think if I were to move a 
little, you could sit in the corner by the window, and then you 
would see into the court better. Only,” he said, as he drew 
his work about his new position, “you must not lean much 
against the sash, for it is not very sound, and you might 
tumble in the court, you know.” 

So Mattie and Poppie sat side by side, and the heart of the 
tailor had a foretaste of heaven. 

Presently Mattie began to talk to Poppie. She could scarcely, 
however, draw a single response from her, for she had nothing 
to say. Interchange of thought was unkuown to the elder 
child, and Mattie’s words were considerably less intelligible to 
Poppie than the autumn wind that blew round their nest. 
Mattie was annoyed. The romance of the reconciliation was 
dimmed. Instinctively she felt that the only way to restore it 
was to teach Poppie, and she took her in hand at once. 

There was more hope for Poppie, and Spelt, too, now that 
Mattie was in the work, for there is no teacher of a child like 
a child. All the tutors of Oxford and Cambridge will not 
bring on a baby as a baby a year older will. The childlike is 
as essential an element in the teacher as in the scholar. And 
the train of my story is not going so fast but that I may pull 
up at this siding for a moment to say that those who believe 
they have found a higher truth, with its higher mode of con- 
veyance, are very apt to err in undervaluing, even to the 
degree of wishing to remove the lower forms in which truth, 
if not embodied exactly, is at least wrapt up. Truth may be 


2i0 


Guild Court, 


presented in the grandeur of a marble statue, or in a brown- 
paper jDarcel. I choose the sculpture ; my last son prefers the 
parcel. The only question is whether there is truth — not in 
the abstract, but as assimilable by the recipient — present in the 
form. I cannot, however, resume without a word on the other 
side. To the man who sees and feels the higher and nobler 
form, it is given to teach that. Let those to whom the lower 
represents the sum of things, teach it with their whole hearts. 
He has nothing to do with it, for he cannot teach it without 
being false. The snare of the devil holds men who, capable of 
teaching the higher, talk of the people not being ready to 
receive it, and therefore teach them in forms which arc to their 
own souls an obstruction. There is cowardice and desertion in 
it. They leave their own harder and higher work to do the 
easier and clumsier work of their neighbor. It is wasteful of 
time, truth, and energy. The man who is most careful over 
the truth that lies in forms not his own, will be the man most 
careful to let no time-serving drag him down — not to the level 
of the lower teachers, for they are honest — ^but to the level of 
Job’s friends, who lied for God ; nay, lower still ; for this will 
soon cease to be lying even for God, and become lying for 
himself. 

When Mattie left her, Lucy again threw herself down, and 
turned her face to the wall, and the story of which Mattie had 
been talking straightway began to mingle with all that filled 
her troubled mind. Lor who was a prodigal son but her lost 
Thomas ? Lost indeed 1 But there was another word in the 
parable to balance that — ^there was found as well. Thomas 
might be found again. And if the angels in heaven rejoiced 
over the finding of such a lost TFanderer, why should she cut 
the cable of Love, and let him go adrift from her heart ? 
Might she not love him still ? Ought she not to love him 
still ? Was he not more likely to come back some day if she 
went on loving him ? The recent awaking of Lucy’s spiritual 
nature — what would be called by some, her conversion — had 
been so interpenetrated v/ith the image, the feeling, the sub- 
jective presence of Thomas — she had thought so much of him 
while stooping her own shoulders to the easy yoke, that she 
could not leave him out now, and it seemed as if, were she to 
give him up, she would lose half the incentive to press forward 
herself. The fibres of her growth had so twined around him, 
that if the idea of his regeneration departed from her, the 
hope of her own would sicken, at least, if not die. True, 
Pride hinted at the disgrace of being allied to such a man— 


Business, 


241 


a man who had stolen ; hut Faith replied, that if there were 
joy in heaven over him, she too might rejoice over him when 
he came back ; and if the Father received the prodigal with all 
his heart, she too might receive him with all hers. But she 
would have no right to receive him thus if she did nothing to 
restore him ; nor would she have any right to put forth in full 
her reclaiming influence except she meant thus to receive him. 
Her conscience began to reproach her that she had not before 
done all that she could to reclaim him, and, if she only knew 
the way, she was now at least prepared to spend and be spent 
for him. But she had already done all that she was, at this 
juncture of his history, to be allowed to do for the wretched 
trifler. G-od had taken the affair out of her hands, and had 
put it into those of somewhat harder teachers. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

BUSINESS. 

When Mr. Worboise found that Thomas did not return 
that night, he concluded at once that he had made up his 
mind to thwart him in his now cherished plan, to refuse the 
daughter of Sir Jonathan Hubbard, and marry the girl whom 
his father disliked. He determined at once, even supposing 
he might be premature as regarded the property, to have the 
satisfaction of causing the Boxalls sharp uneasiness at least. 
His son would not have dared to go against his wishes but for 
the enticements of ^^that minx,’’ in the confidence that her 
uncle’s property was about to be hers. He would teach her, 
and him too, a lesson. Either her uncle or some one or more 
of his family were not drov/ned, or they were all drowned : in 
neither case was the projoerty hers. If one of the family was 
alive, the property remained where it was ; if they v/ere all 
gone, the property was his. He thought himself into a rage 
over her interference with his plans, judged himself an injured 
person, and thereby freed of any trifling obligation that a 
fastidious conscience might have fancied to exist to the preju- 
dice of his claims upon the property of his friend, supposed to 
be deceased. He was now ready to push his rights to the 
uttermost — to exact the j)ound of flesh that the law awarded 
IG 


242 


GuUd Court 


him. He went the next morning but one after Thomas’s dis- 
api^earance and propounded the will. 

In due time this came to the knowledge of Mr. Sargent. 
He wrote to Mrs. Boxall a stiff business letter acquainting her 
with the fact, and then called upon Mr. Worboise to see 
whether some arrangement could not be come to ; for, having 
learned the nature of the will, he saw that almost any decent 
division of the property, for which he could only appeal to the 
justice of the man, would be better than a contest. ' Mr. Wor- 
boise received him with a graciousness reaching almost to 
kindness, talked lightly of the whole as a mere matter of 
business about which there was no room for disputing, smiled 
aside at every attempt made by Mr. Sargent to approach the 
subject from another quarter, and made him understand, with- 
out saying a word to that effect, that he was prepared to push 
matters to the extreme of extremity. He even allowed him to 
see that he had reasons beyond the value of the money for 
setting about the matter in the coolest, most legal fashion in 
the world. Mr. Sargent went away baffled — to devise upon 
what ground ho could oppose the grant of probate. 

While Mr. Sargent was having his interview, Mr. Stopper 
was awaiting his departure in the clerk’s room. It must be 
remembered that Mr. Stopper was now between two stools ; 
and while he came to plead the cause of the widow and father- 
less, he must be especially careful for his own sake not to give 
offense. Him, too, Mr. Worboise received with the greatest 
good humor ; assured him that there was no mistake in the 
matter, and he believed no flaw in the v/ill ; informed him 
that he had drawn it up himself, and had, at his friend’s re- 
quest, entered his own name as contingent reversioner. His 
friend might have done it in joke ; he did not know ; but he 
had not any intention of foregoing his rights, or turning out 
of Luck’s way when she met him in the teeth. On the con- 
trary, he meant to have the money and to use it ; for, at all 
events, it could not have been in joke that his friend had omit- 
ted his mother and his niece. He must have had some good 
reason for so doing; and he was not one to treat a dead 
friend’s feeling with disrespect — and so on, all in pleasant 
words, and with smiling delivery, ended by a hearty, easy 
^^^good-moming.” For, ere he had finished, Mr. Stopper, com- 
ing to the conclusion that nothing was to be done, rose to take 
his leave. At the door he turned, and said : 

^‘1 hope nothing is amiss with your son, Mr. Worboise. I 
hope he is not ill.” 


Business, 


243 


^^Why do you ask? ’’returned Mr. Worboise, just a little 
staggered ; for he was not prepared to hear that Thomas was 
missing from Bagot Street as well as from home. When he 
heard the fact, howeyer, he merely nodded his head, say- 
ing : 

Well, Mr. Stopper, he’s too old for me to horsewhip him. 
I don’t know what the young rascal is aftef . I leaye him in 
your hands. That kind of thing won’t do, of course. I don’t 
know that it wouldn’t be the best thing to discharge him. It’s 
of no consequence to me, you know, and it would be a lesson 
to him, the young scapegrace I That’s really going too far, 
though you and I can make allowances, eh, Stopper ? ” 

Mr. Stopper was wise enough not to incur the odium of a 
Job’s messenger, by telling what eyen Mr. Worboise would 
haye considered bad news ; for he had a reyerence for locks and 
money, and regarded any actionable tampering with either as 
disgraceful. Besides,’’ thought Stopper, ‘‘if it was only to 
spite the young jackanapes, I could almost marry that girl 
without a farthing. But I shouldn’t haye a chance if I were 
to leak about Tom.” 

Mr. Worboise was uneasy, though. He told his wife the 
sum of what had passed between Tom and himself, but I fear 
enjoyed her discomfiture at the relation ; for he said spitefully, 
as he left her room : 

“ Shall I call on Mr. Simon as I go to town, and send him 
up, Mrs. Worboise ?” 

His wife buried her face in her pillow, and made no reply. 
Perhaps the husband’s heart smote him ; ^ but I doubt it, 
though he did call on Mr. Simon and send him to her. 

All the result of Mr. Simc ' ' ‘ries was the discoyery 



counting-house, too. 


that Thomas had yanished 


Thereupon a more real grief than she had eyer known seized 
the mother’s heart ; her conscience reproached her as often as 
Mr. Simon hinted that it was a judgment upon her for haying 
been worldly in her yiews concerning her son’s marriage ; and 
she sent for Amy home, and allowed things to take their way. 

Al l the comfort Mr. Worboise took was to say to himself 
oyer and oyer, “ The young rascal’s old enough to take care of 
himself. He knows what he’s about, too. He thinks to force 
me to a surrender by starying me of his precious self. We’ll 
see. I’ye no doubt he’s har&red in that old woman’s house. 
Stay a bit, and if I don’t fire him out — by Joye ! She’ll find 
I’m not one to take liberties with, the old hag ! ” 

The best that Mr. Sargent could do at present was to resist 


244 


Guild Court 


probate on the ground of tlie uncertainty of the testator’s 
death, dclajdng thus the execution of the will. He had little 
hope, however, of any ultimate success — except such as he 
might achieve by shaming Mr. Worboise into an arrange- 
ment. 

Mrs. Boxall sent for him, and with many acknowledgments 
begged him to do his best for them, saying that, if he were 
successful, she would gladly pay him whatever he demanded. 
He repudiated all idea of payment, however, and indeed con 
sidered himself only too fortunate to be permitted to call as 
often as he pleased, for then he generally saw Lucy. But he 
never made the smallest attempt to renew even the slight 
intimacy which had formerly existed between them. 


CHAPTEE XXXVII. 

ME. SAKGENT LABOES. 

That large room in Guild Court, once so full of aged cheer- 
fulness and youthful hope, was now filled with an atmosphere 
of both moral and spiritual perturbation. The first effect of 
her son’s will upon Mrs. Boxall was rage and indignation 
against Mr. Worboise, who, she declared, must have falsified 
it. She would not believe that Eichard could have omitted 
her name, and put in that of his attorney. The moment she 
heard the evil tidings, she rose and went for her bonnet, with 
the full intention of giving ‘Hhe rascal a bit of her mind.” 
It was all that her grand-daughter and Mr. Stopper could do 
to prevent her. For some time she would yield no ear to their 
representations of the bad consequences of such a 2'>roceeding. 
She did not care. If there was justice to be had on the earth 
she would have it, if she went to the Queen herself to get it. I 
half suspect that, though she gave in at last, she did carry out 
her intention afterward without giving any one the chance of 
preventing her. However that may be, the paroxysm of her 
present rage passed off in tears, followed by gloomy fits, which 
were diversified by outbreaks of temper against Lucy, although 
she spoke of her as a poor dear orphan reduced to beggary by 
the wickedness and greed of lawyers in general, who lived like 
cannibals upon the flesh and blood of innocents. In vain 


245 


Mr, Sargent Labors, 

■would Lucy try to persuade her that they were no worse now 
than they had been, reminding licr that they were even hap- 
pier together before the expectation of more than plenty came 
in to trouble them ; beside her late imagination of wealth, her 
present feeling was that of poverty, and to feel poor is surely 
the larger half of being poor. 

On Lucy my reader will easily believe that this change of 
prospect had little effect. Her heart was too much occupied 
vrith a far more serious affair to be moved about money. Had 
everything been right with Thomas, I have no doubt she would 
have built many a castle of the things she would do ; but till 
Thomas was restored to her, by being brought to his right 
mind, no one thing seemed more worth doing than another. 
Sadness settled upon her face, her walk, her speech, her whole 
expression. But she went about her work as before, and did 
what she could to keep her sorrow from hurting others. The 
reality of the late growth of religious feeling in her was 
severely tested ; but it stood the test ; for she sought comfort 
in holding up her care to God ; and what surer answer to such 
prayer could there be, than that she had strength to do her 
work ? We are saved by hope, and Lucy’s hope never died ; 
or if it did wither away under the dry blasts of her human 
judgment, the prayers tnat went up for submission to His will 
soon returned in such dews as caused the little flower once 
more to lift its head in the sun and wind. And often as she 
could — not every day, because of her engagements with Miriam 
Morgenstern — she went to Mr. Fuller’s church, and I think I 
may say that she never returned without what was worth 
going for. I do not say that she could always tell what she 
had learned, but she came away with fresh strength, and fresh 
resolution to do what might show itself to be riglit. And the 
strength came chiefly from this, that she believed more and 
more what the apostle Peter came to be so sure of before he 
died, that ‘^He careth for us.” She believed that the power 
that made her a living soul was not, could not be, indifferent 
to her sorrows, however much she might have deserved them, 
still less indifferent because they were for her good — a ready 
excuse for indifference with men — and if only he cared that 
she suffered, if he knew that it was sad and hard to bear, she 
could bear it without a word, almost without a thought of 
restlessness. And then, why should she not hope for Thomas 
as well as for herself ? If we are to love our neighbor as our- 
self, surely we must hope and pray for him as for ourself ; and 
if Lucy found that she could love Thomas at least as herself. 


246 Ouild Court 

for him she was in that very love hound to pray and to hope 
as for herself. 

Mr. Sargent was soon thoroughly acquainted with all Mrs. 
BoxalPs alfau’s. And he had so little hope of success in regard 
to the will, that, when he found that she had no vouchers to 
produce for her own little property placed in her son’s hands, 
he resolved, before going any further in a course which must 
irritate Mr. Worboise, to see whether he could not secure that 
first. Indeed he was prepared, seeing how ill matters looked 
for his clients, to offer to withdraw from the contest, provided 
the old lady’s rights were acknowledged. With this view he 
called once more upon Mr. Worboise, who received him just 
as graciously as before. A conversation something like this 
followed : 

^^Mrs. Boxall informs me, Mr. Worboise, that her son, at 
the time of his death, was, and had been for many years, in 
possession of some property of hers, amounting to somewhere 
between two and three thousand pounds. The old lady is a 
very simple woman—” 

‘‘Is she ?” interjected, rather than interrupted, Mr. Wor- 
boise, in a cold parenthesis. Mr. Sargent went on. 

“ Indeed she does not knoAV the amount exactly, but that 
could be easily calculated from the interest he was in the habit 
of paying her.” 

“ But whatever acknowledgment she holds for the money 
will render the trouble unnecessary,” said Mr. Worboise, who 
saw well enough to what Mr. Sargent was coming. 

“ Unfortunately — it was very wrong of a man of business, or 
anybody, indeed — her son never gave her any acknowledgment 
in writing.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Mr. Worboise, with a smile, “ then I don’t ex- 
actly see what can be done. It is very awkward.” 

“You can be easily satisfied of the truth of the state- 
ment.” 

“lam afraid not, Mr. Sargent.” 

“ She is a straightforward old lady, and — ” 

“ I have reason to doubt it. At all events, seeing that she 
considers the whole of the property hers by right, an opinion 
in which you sympathize with her— as her legal adviser, 1 mean 
— it will not be very surprising if, from my point of view, I 
should be jealous of her making a statement for the sake of 
securing a part of those rights. With such a temptation, and 
such an excuse, it is just possible — I’ve heard of such a thing 
as evil that good might come, eh, Mr. Sargent ? — even if she 


Mr, Sargent Labors, 247 

were as straightforward as you think her. Let her produce 
her vouchers, I say.” 

I have no fear — at least I hope Mr. Stopper will he .able 
to prove it. There will be evidence enough of the interest 
paid.” 

“As interest, Mr. Sargent ? I suspect it will turn out to 
be only an annuity that the good fellow allowed her, notwith- 
standing the reasons he must have had for omitting her name 
from his will.” 

“ I confess this much to you, Mr. Worboise— that our cause 
is so far from promising that I should advise Mrs. Boxall to be 
content with her own, and push the case no further.” 

“ Quite right, Mr. Sargent. The most prudent advice you 
can give her.” 

“You will then admit the debt, and let the good woman 
have her own ?” 

“Admit the debt by no means ; but certainly let her have 
her own as soon as she proves what is her own,”" answered Mr. 
Worboise, smiling. 

“ But I give you my word, Mr. Worboise,” said Mr. Sar- 
gent, doing his best to keep his temper, “ that I believe the 
woman’s statement to be perfectly true.” 

“I believe you, Mr. Sargent, but I do not believe the 
woman,” returned Mr, Worboise, again smiling. 

“But you know it will not matter much, because, coming 
into this property as you do, you can hardly avoid making 
some provision for those so nearly related to the testator, and 
who were dependent upon him during his lifetime. You can- 
not leave the old lady to starve.” 

“It will be time enough to talk about that when my rights 
are acknowledged. Till then I decline to entertain the ques- 
tion.” 

There was a something in Mr. Worboise’s manner, and an 
irrepressible flash of his eye, that all but convinced Mr. Sar- 
gent that there was nothing not in the bond to be got from 
him. He therefore left him, and started a new objection in 
opposing the probate of the will. He argued the probability 
of all or one or other of the daughters surviving the father — 
that is, not of their being yet alive, but of their having out- 
lived him. How this question, though plain as the alphabet 
to those who are acquainted with law, requires some explana- 
tion to those who arc not, numbering possibly the greater part 
of my readers. 

The property would come to Mr. Worboise only in the case 


248 


Guild Court 


of all those mentioned in the will dying before Mr. Boxall. A 
man can only will that which is his own at the time of his 
death. If he died before any of his family, Mr. Worboise had 
nothing to do with it. It went after the survivor’s death to 
her heirs. Hence if either of the daughters survived father 
and mother, if only for one provable moment, the property 
would be hers, and would go to her heir, namely, her grand- 
mother. So it would in any case, had not Mr. Worboise been 
mentioned, except Mrs. Richard Boxall had survived her hus- 
band and family, in which case the money would have gone to 
her nearest of kin. This alternative, however, was not started, 
for both sides had an equal interest in opposing it — and in^ 
deed the probable decision upon probabilities would have been 
that the wife would die first. The whole affair then turned 
upon the question : whether it was more likely that Richard 
Boxall or every one of his daughters died first ; in which ques- 
tion it must be remembered that there was nothing cumulative 
in the three daughters. He was as likely to die before or to 
survive all three as any one of them, except individual reasons 
could be shown in regard to one daughter which did not exist 
in regard to another. 

One more word is necessary. Mr. Sargent was not in good 
practice and would scarcely have been able — I do not use the 
word afforded because I do not know what it means — to meet 
the various expenses of the plea. But the very day he had 
become acquainted with the contents of the will, he told Mr. 
Morgenstern of the peculiar position in which his governess 
and her grandmother found themselves. Now Mr. Morgen- 
stern was not only rich — that is common ; nor was he only 
aware that he was rich ; if that is not so common, it is not yet 
very uncommon ; but he felt that he had something to spare. 
Lucy was a great favorite with him ; so was Sargent. He 
could not but see that Sargent was fond of Lucy, and that he 
was suffering from some measure of repulse. He therefore 
hoped, if not to be of any material assistance to Lucy — for 
from Sargent’s own representation he could not see that the 
matter v^as a promising one — at least to give the son of his old 
friend a chance of commending himself to the lady by putting 
it in his power to plead her cause. And conducted as Mr. Sar- 
gent conducted the affair, it did not put Mr. Morgenstern to 
an amount of expense that cost him two thoughts ; while even 
if it had been serious, the pleasure with which his wife re- 
garded his generosity would have been to him reward 
enough, ^ 


How Thomas Did and Fared. 


249 


CHAPTER XXXVIIL 

HOW THOMAS DID AHD FARED. 

I FLATTER myself that my reader is not very much interest- 
ed in Thomas ; 1 never meant he should be yet. I confess, 
however, that I am now girding up my loins with the express 
intention of beginning to interest him if I can. For I have 
now almost readied the point of his history which I myself 
feel to verge on the interesting. When a worthless fellow be- 
gins to meet with his deserts, then we begin to be aware that 
after all he is our own flesh and blood. Our human heart be- 
gins to feel just the least possible yearning toward him. We 
hope he will be v/ell trounced, but we become capable of hop- 
ing that it may not be lost upon him. At least we are content 
to hear something more about him. 

When Thomas left the gambling-house that dreary morning, 
he must have felt very much as the devil must feel. For he 
had plenty of money and no home. He had actually on this 
raw morning, when nature seemed to be nothing but a drizzle 
diluted with gray fog, nowhere to go to. More, indeed; he 
had a good many places, including the principal thoroughfares 
of London, where he must not go. There was one other place 
which he did all he could to keep out of, and that was the 
place where the little thinking that was considered necessary 
in his establishment was carried on. He could not help peep- 
ing in at the window, however, and now and then putting his 
ear to the keyhole. And what did he hear ? That he, 
Thomas Worboise, gentlemen, was a thief, a coward, a sneak. 
Xow, when Thomas heard this, for the first time in his life, 
his satisfaction with himself gave way utterly ; nor could all 
his admiration for Lara or the Corsair — I really forget whether 
they are not one and the same phantom — reconcile him to be- 
come one of the fraternity. The Corsair at least would not 
have sold Medora’s ring to save his life. Up to this point, he 
had never seen himself contemptible. Xor even now could he 
feel it much, for, weary and sick, all he wanted was some place 
to lay down his head and go to sleep in. After he had slept, 
he would begin to see things as they were, and, once admitted 
possible that he could do an ungentlemanly action, fresh accu- 
sations from quarters altogether unsuspected of unfriendliness 
would be lodged in that court of which I have already spoken. 
But for a time mere animal self-preservation would keep the 


250 


Guild Court 


upper hand. He was conscious of an inclination to dive into 
every court that he came near — of a proclivity toward the 
darkness. This was the same Thomas Worboise that used to 
face the sunshine in gay attire, but never let the sun farther in 
than his brain ; so the darkness within him had come at last 
to the outside, and swathed all in its funereal folds. Till a 
man’s indwelling darkness is destroyed by the deep-going light 
of truth, he walks in darkness, and the sooner this darkness 
comes out in action and shows itself to be darkness, the better 
for the man. The presence of this darkness, however, is sooner 
recognized by one man than by another. To one the darkness 
within him is made manifest by a false compliment he has just 
paid to a pretty girl ; to Thomas it could only be revealed by 
theft and the actual parting for money with the jewel given 
him by a girl whom he loved as much as he could love, which 
was not much — yet ; to a third — not murder, perjury, hypoc- 
risy, hanging, will reveal it ; he will go into the other world 
from the end of a rope, not mistaking darkness for light, but 
knowing that it is what it is, and that it is his, and yet deny- 
ing the possession of the one, and asserting the possession of 
the other. 

Thomas forgot all about where he was, till suddenly he 
found himself far west in the Strand. The light of the world 
was coming nearer ; no policeman was in sight : and the arch- 
way leading down under the Adelphi yawned like the mouth 
of hell at his side. He darted into it. But no sooner was he 
under the arches than he wished himself out again. Strange 
forms of misery and vice were coming to life here and there in 
the darkness where they had slept away the night. He was of 
their sort, yet he did not like his own kin. Nay, some of 
them might be worthy compared to him, yet he shrunk from 
them. He rushed out. Heaven was full of lights and hell was 
full of horrors ; where was his own place ? He hurried back 
toward the city. 

But as the light grew his terror increased. There was no 
ground for immediate alarm, for no one yet knew what he had 
done ; but with the light discovery drew nearer. When he 
reached Farringdon Street he turned down toward Blackfriars 
Bridge, then eastward again by Earl Street into Thames 
Street. He felt safer where the streets were narrow, and the 
houses rose high to shut out the dayspring, which the Lord says 
to Job he had caused to know his place, that it might take 
hold of the ends of the earth,” like a napkin, that the wicked 
might be shaken out of it.” He hurried on, not yet knowing 


How Thomas Did and Fared, 


251 


what he was, onlj seeing revelation at hand clothed in terror. 
And the end of it was, that he buried his head in the public- 
house where the mischief of the preceding night had begun, 
and was glad to lie down in a filthy bed. The ways of trans- 
gressors are always hard in the end. Happy they who find 
them hard in the beginning. 

Ill at ease as he was, both in body and mind, he was yejt so 
worn out that he fell fast asleep ; and still on the stream of 
sleep went drifting toward the vengeance that awaited him — 
the vengeance of seeing himself as he was. 

When he woke, it was afternoon. He had to make several 
efforts before his recollection combined with his observation 
to tell him wdiere he was. He felt, however, that a horror was 
coming, and when it came his whole being was crushed before 
it. It must be confessed, however, that it was the disgrace, 
and not the sin, that troubled him. But honor, although a 
poor substitute for honesty or religion, is yet something ; and 
the fear of disgrace is a good sword to hang over the heads of 
those who need such attendance. Thomas’s heart burned like 
a hot coal with shame. In vain he tried to persuade himself, 
in vain he partially succeeded in persuading himself, that he 
was not himself when he took the money. Allowing whatever 
excuse might lie in the state to which he had first brought 
himself, he knew that no defense of that sort would have any 
influence in restoring to him the place he had lost. He was 
an outcast. He lay in moveless torture. He knew himself, 
and he knew his crime ; and he knew that himself had com- 
mitted that crime. Wide awake, he did not think of rising ; 
for the whole world of activity lay beyond the impassable bar- 
rier of his shame. There was nothing for him to do, nowhere 
for him to go. At length he heard voices in the room below 
him : they were voices he knew ; and he was lying over the 
scene of last night’s temptation. He sprung from the bed, 
hurried on his clothes, crept down the stairs, paid for his lodg- 
ing at the bar, and went out into the street. He felt sick at 
the thought of joining them ; he had had a surfeit of wicked- 
ness. 

But he was too near his former haunts ; and the officers of 
justice must be after him. He turned from one narrow street 
into another, and wandered on till he came where the bow- 
sprit of a vessel projected over a wall across a narrow lane, and 
he knew by this that he must be near the Thames. The sun 
was going down, and the friendly darkness was at hand. But 
he could not rest. He knew nothing of the other side, and it 


252 


Guild Court, 


Beemed to liim tliorefore that he would bo safer there. He 
would take a boat and be put across. A passage between two 
houses led toward the river. Probably there were stairs at the 
end. He turned into the passage. Plalf a dozen bills were up 
on the walls. He stopped to look. They all described bodies 
found in the river. He turned awa}^, and started at the sight 
of a policeman regarding him from a door three or four yards 
off. It was a police station. He had all but put his head into 
the lion’s mouth. He had just presence of mind enough to 
prevent him from running, but not enough to keep his legs 
steady under him. His very calves seemed to feel the eyes of 
the jioliceman burning upon them, and shrank away with a 
sense of unprotected misery. He passed several stairs before 
he ventured to look round. Then finding no reason to sup- 
pose he was watched, he turned down the next opening, found 
a boat, and telling the waterman to put him across to Rother- 
hithe, of which district he just knew the name, sat dov/n in 
the stern. The man rowed up the river. The sun was going 
down behind the dome of St. Paul’s, which looked like the 
round shoulder of a little hill ; and all the brown masts and 
spars of the vessels shone like a forest of gold-barked trees in 
winter. The dark river caught the light, and threw it shim- 
mering up on the great black hulls, which shone again in the 
water below; and the Thames, with all its dirt and all its 
dead, looked radiant. But Thomas felt nothing of its beauty. 
If Nature had ever had a right of way in his heart, she was 
now shut out. What was it to him, despised in his own eyes, 
that the sun shone ? He looked up at the sky only to wish 
for the night. What was it to him that the world was for a 
moment gay, even into the heart of London ? Its smile could 
not reach his heart : it needs an atmosphere as well as a sun 
to make light. The sun was in the heavens, yea, the central 
sun of truth shone upon the universe ; but there was no at- 
mosphere of truth in Thomas’s world to be lighted up by it ; 
or if there was, it was so filled with smoke and vapor that for 
the time the sun could not make it smile. As they passed 
under a towering hull, he envied a monkey that went scramb- 
ling out of one of the port-holes and in at another. And yet 
the scene around was as strange as it was beautiful. The 
wide river, the many vessels, the multitudinous wilderness of 
gray houses on every side, all disorder to the eye, yet blended 
by the air and the light and the thin fog into a marvelous 
whole ; the occasional vista of bridge-arches ; the line of Lon- 
don Bridge l3dng parallel v/ith the lines of green and gray and 


Holo Thomas Did and Fared, 253 

gold in the sky — its people, its horses, its carriages creeping 
like insects athwart the sunset — one of the arches cut across 
near the top by the line of a new railway-bridge, and the seg- 
ment filled with a moving train ; all this light and life to the 
eye, while, save for the splash of the oars, and the general 
hum like an aroma of sound that filled the air, all was still to 
the ear — none of it reached the heart of outcast Thomas. 

Soon, as if by magic, the scene changed. The boatman had 
been rowing up the river, keeping in the quiet water as the 
tide hurried out. Now he was crossing toward Cherry Garden 
Stairs. As they drew near the Surrey-side, all at once Thomas 
found himself in the midst of a multitude of boats, fiitting 
about like water-flies on the surface of a quiet pool. What 
they were about he could not see. Now they would gather in 
dense masses, in every imaginable position to each other, the 
air filled with shouting, objurgation, expostulation, and good- 
humored chaff, varied with abuse. Again they would part 
asunder and vanish over the wide space. Guns were firing, 
flags were flying, Thames liveries gleaming here and there. 
The boats were full of men, women, and children ; some in 
holiday garments, most of them dark with the darkness of an 
English mob. It was an aquatic crowd — a people exclusively 
living on and by the river — assembled to see a rowing-match 
between two of their own class for a boat, probably given by 
the publicans of the neighborhood — who would reap ten times 
the advantage. But although there were thousands assembled, 
the uproar troubled such a small proportion of the river’s sur- 
face, that one might have rowed up and down in the middle 
space between Eotherhithe and Wapping for hours and know 
nothing about it. 

But Thomas did not see the race, not because he was in 
haste to get ashore, hut because something happened. His 
waterman, anxious to see the sport, lingered in the crowd 
lining the whole of that side of the river. In a boat a little 
way farther up was a large family party, and in it a woman 
who was more taken up with the baby in her arms than with 
all that was going on around her. In consequence of her 
absorption in the merry child, which was springing with all 
the newly-discovered delight of feet and legs, she was so dread- 
fully startled when the bows of another boat struck the gun- 
wale just at her back, that she sprung half up from her seat, 
and the baby, jerking itself forward, dropped from her arms 
into the river. Thomas was gazing listlessly at the water 
v/hen he saw the child sweep past him a foot or so below the 


254 


Guild Court, 


surface. His next remembered consciousness was in the water. 
He was a fair swimmer, though no rider. He caught the 
child, and let himself drift with the tide, till he came upon 
the cable of a vessel that lay a hundred yards below. Boats 
came rushing about him ; in a moment the child was taken 
from him and handed across half a dozen of them to his 
mother ; and in another moment he, too, was in a boat. 
"When he came to himself a gin-faced, elderly woman, in a 
small threadbare tartan shawl, was wiping his face with a 
pocket-handkerchief, and murmuring some feminine words 
over him, while a coarse-looking, dough-faced man was hold- 
ing a broken cup with some spirit in it to his mouth. 

‘^Go ashore with the gentleman, Jim,” said the woman. 

There’s the India Arms. That’s a respectable place. You 
must go to bed, my dear, till you gets your clo’es dried.” 

I haven’t paid my man,” said Tom, feebly. He was now 
shivering with cold ; for, after the night and day he had spent, 
he was in no condition to resist the effects of the water. 

Oh, we’ll pay him. 'Here, Fluke,” cried two or three — 
they seemed all to know each other. 

Come along, sir,” cried twenty shrill voices over his head. 
He looked up and saw that they were alongside of a great 
barge which was crowded with little dirty creatures, row above 
row. Come this way — solid barges, sir, all the way. Ketch 
hold of the gen’lm’n’s hand, Sammy. There. Now, Bill.” 

They hauled and lifted Thomas on to the barge, then led 
him along the side and across to the next yawning wooden 
gulf, and BO over about seven barges to a plank, which led 
from the last on to a ladder ascending to the first fl.oor of a 
public-house, the second floor of which, supported upon piles, 
projected over high water. There his conductors, two ragged 
little mudlarks, left him. 

Through an empty kind of bar-room, he went into the bar, 
which communicated with the street. Here flrst he found 
that he had been followed by the same man who had given 
him the gin. He now passed before him to the counter, and 
said to the woman who was pumping a pot of beer : 

This gen’leman, Mrs. Cook, ’s been and just took a child 
out o’ the water, ma’am. He ’ain’t got a change in his wescut- 
pocket, so if you’ll do what ye can for ’im, there’s many on us 
’ll be obliged to ye, ma’am.” 

‘^Lor’, whose child was it, Jim ?” 

I don’t know as you know her, ma’am. The man’s name’s 
Potts. He keeps a public down about Limehouse, someveres.” 


How Thomas Did and Fared. 255 

Thomas stood shivering — glad, however, that the man sliould 
represent his case for him. 

‘^The gentleman had better go to bed till we get his clones 
dried for him/’ said the landlady. ‘*1 think that’s the best 
we can do for him.” 

Take a drop o’ sum mat, sir,” said the man, turning to 
Thomas. ^^They keeps good licker here. Put a name upon 
it, sir.” 

Well, I’ll have a small glass of pale brandy,” said Thomas — 
^^neat, if you please. And what’ll you have yourself ? I’m 
much obliged to you for introducing "me here, for I must look 
rather a queer customer.” 

It’s what you’ll have, not what I’ll have, sir, if you’ll ex- 
cuse we,” returned the man. 

I beg your pardon,” said Thomas, who had just received 
his brandy. He drank it, and proceeded to put his hand in 
his pocket — ^no easy matter in the state of his garments. 

Pm a goin’ to pay for this,” interposed the man, in a 
determined tone, and Thomas was hardly in a condition to 
dispute it. 

At the same moment the landlady, who had left the bar 
after she had helped Thomas, returned, saying, ^^Will you 
walk this way, sir ? ” Thomas followed, and found himself in 
a neat enough little Toom, where he was only too glad to un- 
dress and go to bed. As he pulled off his coat, it occurred to 
him to see that his money was safe. He had put it, mostly in 
sovereigns, into a pocket-book of elaborate construction, which 
he generally carried in the breast-pocket of what the tailors 
call a lounging-coat. It was gone. His first conclusion was, 
that the man had taken it. He rushed back into the bar, but 
he was not there. It must be confessed that, in the midst of 
his despair, a fresh pang at the loss of his money shot through 
Thomas’s soul. But he soon came to the conclusion that the 
man had not taken it. It was far more likely that, as he went 
overboard, the book slipped from his pocket into the water, 
and in this loss an immediate reward of almost his first act of 
self-forgetfulness had followed. The best thing that can hap- 
pen to a man, sometimes, is to lose his money ; and, wliile 
people are compassionate over the loss, God may regard it as 
the first step of the stair by which the man shall rise above it 
and many things besides with which not only his feet, but his 
hands and his head, are defiled. Then first he began to feel 
that he had no ground under his feet — the one necessity before 
such a man could find a true foundation. Until he lost it, he 


25G 


Guild Court 


did not know how much, even in his misery, the paltry hun- 
dred pounds had been to him. hiow it was gone, things 
looked black indeed. He emptied his pockets of tYW or three 
sovereigns and some silver, put his clothes out at the door, 
and got into bed. There he fell a tiiinking. Instead of tell- 
ing what he thought, however, I v/ill now turn to what my 
reader may be, and I have been, thinking about his act of 
rescue. 

What made him, who has been shown all but incapable of 
originating a single action, thus at the one right moment do 
the one right thing ? Here arises another question : Does a 
man always originate his own actions ? Is it not possible, to 
say the least of it, that, just to give him a taste of what well- 
doing means, some moment, when selfishness is sick and faint, 
may be chosen by the power in whom we live and move and 
have our being to inspire the man with a true impulse ? We 
must think what an unspeakable comfort it must have been to 
Thomas, in those moments of hopeless degradation of which 
he felt all the bitterness, suddenly to find around him, as the 
result of a noble deed into which he had been unaccountably 
driven, a sympathetic, yes, admiring public. 'No matter that 
they were not of his class, nor yet that Thomas was not the 
man to do the human brotherhood justice ; he could not help 
feeling the present power of humanity, the healing medicine 
of approbation, in the faces of the common people who had 
witnessed and applauded his deed. I say medicine of appro- 
bation ; for what would have been to him in ordina:^, a poison, 
was now a medicine. There was no fear of his thinking him- 
self too much of a hero at present. 

It may be objected that the deed originated only in a care- 
lessness of life resulting from self-contempt. I answer, that 
no doubt that had its share in making the deed possible, 
because it removed for the time all that was adverse to such a 
deed ; but self-despite, however true and well-grounded, can- 
not inspirit to true and noble action. I think it was the 
divine, the real self, aroused at the moment by the breath of 
that wind which bloweth where it listeth, that sprung thus 
into life and deed, shadowing, I say shadowing only, that 
wonderful saying of our Lord that ho that loscth his life shall 
find ifc.^ It had come — been given to him — ^that a touch of 
light might streak the dark cloud of his fate, that he might 
not despise himself utterly, and act as unredeemable — ^kill 
himself or plunge into wickedness to drown his conscience. 
It was absolutely necessary that he should bo brought to want ; 


How Thomas Did and Fared* 


257 


but here was just one little opening — not out of want, but into 
the light of a higher region altogether, the region of well- 
being — by which a glimmer of the strength of light could 
enter the chaos of his being. Any good deed partakes of the 
life whence it comes, and is a good to him who has done it. 
And this act might be a beginning. 

Poor weak Thomas, when he got his head down on the pil- 
low, began to cry. He pitied himself for the helplessness to 
which he was now reduced, and a new phase of despair filled 
his soul. He even said in his thoughts that his ill-gotten gain 
had, like all the devil’s money, turned to rubbish in his hands. 
What he was to do he could not tell. He v/as tolerably safe, 
however, for the night, and, worn and weary, soon fell into a 
sleep which not even a dream disturbed. 

When he woke all was dark, and he welcomed the darkness 
as a friend. It soothed and comforted him a little. If it were 
only always dark ! If he could find some cave to creep into 
where he might revel in — feed upon the friendly gloom ! If 
he could get among the snowy people of the north, blessed 
with half a year of gentle sunlcssness ! Thomas had plenty of 
fancy. He leaned on his elbow amd looked out. His clothes 
had been plaocd by him while he slept. He rose and put 
them on, opened the door of his room, saw light somewhere, 
approached it softly, and found himself in a small room, like a 
large oriel window. The day had changed from gold to silver ; 
the wide expanse of the great river lay before him, and up, 
and down, and across, it gleamed in the thoughtful radiance 
of the moon. Never vras a picture of lovelier peace. It was 
like the reflex of the great city in the mind of a saint — all its 
vice, its crime, its oppression, money- loving, and ambition, 
all its fearfulness, grief, revenge, and remorse, ^ntly covered 
with the silver mantle of faith and hope. But Thomas could 
not feel this. Its very repose v/ as a rcprcach to him. There 
was no repose for him henceforth forever. He was degi'aded 
to all eternity. And herewith the thought of Lucy, which 
had been hovering about his mind all day, like a bird looking 
for an open window that it might enter, but which he had not 
dared to admit, darted into its own place, and he groaned 
aloud. For in her eyes, as well as in his own, he was utterly 
degraded. Not a thousand good actions, not the applause of 
a thousand crowds, could destroy the fact that he had done as 
he had done. The dingy, applauding multitude, with its 
many voices, its kind faces, its outstretched hands, had van- 
ished, as if the moon had melted it away from ofi the water. 

17 


258 


Guild Court 


[N’ever to all eternity would that praising people, his little con- 
soling populace, exist again, again be gathered from the four 
corners whither they had vanished, to take his part, to speak 
for him that he was not all lost in badness, that they at least 
considered him fit company for them and their children. 

Thoughts like these went to and fro in his mind as he 
looked out upon the scene before him. Then it struck him 
that all was strangely still. Not only was there no motion on 
the river, but there was no sound — only an occasional outcry 
in the streets behind. The houses across in Wapping showed 
rare lights, and looked sepulchral in the killing stare of the 
moon, which, high above, had not only the whole heavens but 
the earth as well to herself, and seemed to be taking her own 
way with it in the consciousness of irresistible power. What 
that way was, who can tell ? The troubled brain of the ma- 
niac and the troubled conscience of the malefactor know some- 
thing about it ; but neither can tell the way of the moon with 
the earth. Fear laid hold upon Thomas. He found himself 
all alone with that white thing in the sky ; and he turned 
from the glorious window to go down to the bar. But all the 
house was dark, the household in bed, and he alone awake and 
wandering ^‘in the dead waste and middle of the night. A 
horror seized him wiien he found that he was alone. Why 
should he fear ? The night covered him. But there was God. 
I do not mean for a moment that he had a conscious fear of the 
Being he had been taught to call God. Never had that repre- 
sentation produced in him yet any sense of the reality, any the 
least consciousness of presence — anything like the feeling of 
the child who placed two chairs behind the window-curtain, 
told God that that one was for him, and sat down to have a talk 
with him. It was fear of the unknown God, manifested in 
the face of a nature which was strange and unfriendly to the 
evil-doer. It is to God alone that a man can flee from such 
terror of the unknown in the fierceness of the sea, in the 
ghastly eye of the moon, in the abysses of the glaciers, in the 
misty slopes of the awful mountain-side ; but to God Thomas 
dared not or could not flee. Full of the horror of wakefulness 
in the midst of sleeping London, he felt his way back into the 
room he had just left, threw himself on a bench, and closed 
his eyes to shut out everything. His own room at Highbury, 
even that of his mother with Mr. Simon talking in it, rose be- 
fore him like a haven of refuge. But between him and that 
haven lay an impassable gulf. No more returning thither. He 
must leave the country. And Lucy ? He must vanish from 


How Thomas Did and Fared, 


259 


her eyes, that she might forget him and marry some one else. 
Was not that the only justice left him to do her ? But would 
Lucy forget him ? Why should she not ? Women could for- 
get honorable men whom they had loyed, let them only be out 
of their sight long enough ; and why should not Lucy forget 
a — ? He dared not even think the word that belonged to him 
now. A fresh billow of shame rushed over him. In the person 
of Lucy he condemned himself afresh to utter and ineffaceable 
shame, confusion, and hissing. Involuntarily he opened his 
eyes. A ghostly whiteness, the sails of a vessel hanging loose 
from their yards, gleamed upon him. The whole of the pale 
region of the moon, the spectral masts, the dead hou. es on the 
opposite shore, the glitter of the river as from eyes tnat would 
close no more, gleamed in upon him, and a fresh terror of 
loneliness in the presence of the incomprehensible and the 
unsympathetic overcame him. He fell on his knees, and 
sought to pray ; and doubtless in the ear that is keen with 
mercy it sounded as prayer, though to him that prayed it 
seemed that no winged thought arose to the infinite from a 
^Hieart as dry as dust.” Mechanically, at length, all feeling 
gone, both of fear and of hope, he went back to his room and 
his bed. 

When he woke in the morning his landlady’s voice was in 
his cars. 

^‘Well, how do we ffnd ourselves to-day, sir? Hone the 
worse, I hope ? ” 

He opened his eyes. She stood by his bedside, with her 
short arms set like the handles of an urn. It was a common 
face that rose from between them, red, and with eyes that 
stood out with fatness. Yet Thomas was glad to see them 
looking at him, for there was kindness in them. 

I am all right, thank you,” he said. 

Where will you have your breakfast ?” she asked. 

Where you please,” answered Thomas. 

Will you come down to the bar-parlor, then ? ” 

‘^1 shall be down in a few minutes.” 

Jim Salter’s inquirin’ after ye.” 

Who ? ” said Thomas, starting. 

Only Jim Salter, the man that brought you in last night, 
sir. I told him to wait till I came up.” 

I shall be down in one minute,” said Thomas, a hope of 
his money darting into his mind. 

He had to pass through the bar to the little room at the 
back. Against the counter leaned Jim, smoking a short pipe. 


260 


Guild Court 


with his hand upon a pot of beer. When Thomas entered, he 
touched his cap to him, saying : 

Glad to see you lookin’ middlin’, guvnor. Is there any- 
thing I can do for you to-day ? ” 

‘‘Come into the room here,” said Thomas, ^^and have some- 
thing. I’m rather late, you see. I haven’t had my breakfast 
yet.” 

Salters followed him with his pewter in his hand. Thomas 
disliked his appearance less than on the preceding evening. 
What was unpleasant in his face was chiefly owing to the 
small-pox. He was dirty and looked leery, but there seemed 
to be no J arm in him. He sat down near the door which led 
to the laader already mentioned, and put his pot on the win- 
dow-sill. Thomas asked him if he would have a cup of coffee, 
but he preferred his beer and his pipe. 

You wanted to see me ? ” said Thomas, opening a conversa- 
tion. 

‘‘ Oh ! nothin’ perticlar, guvnor. I only wanted to see if I 
could do anything for you,” said Jim. 

I was in hopes, you had heard of something I lost, but 
I suppose it’s at the bottom of the river,” said Thomas. 

‘^Hot your watch ?” asked Salter, with some appearance of 
anxious interest. 

great deal worse,” answered Thomas; ^^a pocket- 

book.” 

Much in it ?” asked Jim, with a genuine look of sympa- 
thetic discomfiture. 

More than I like to think of. Look,” said Thomas, turn- 
ing out the contents of his pocket, ‘^that is all I have in the 
world.” 

‘^More than ever I had,” returned Salter; ‘^keep me a 
month.” 

Thomas relapsed into thought. This man was the only re- 
semblance of a friend he had left. He did not like to let him 
go loose in the wilds of London, without the possibility of 
finding him again. If this man vanished, the only link 
Thomas felt between him and the world of men would be 
broken. I do not say Thomas thought this. Ho only felt that 
he would be absolutely alone when this man left him. Why 
should he not go away somewhere with him ? 

Where do you live ? ” he asked. 

Stepney way,” answered Jim. 

I w’ant to see that part of London. What do you do now ? 
I mean, what do you work at ? ” 


How Thomas Did and Fared, 


261 


Oh ! nothin’ perfciclar, guynor. Take a day at the docks 
now and then. Any job that turns up. I’m not perfciclar. 
Only I never could stick to one thing. I like to be moving. I 
had a month in Bermondsey last— in a tan-yard, you know. I 
knows a bit of everthing.” 

Well, where are you going now ? ” 

Nowheres — anywhere you like, guvnor. If you want to see 
them parts, as you say, there’s nobody knows ’em better than 
I do — Tiger-bay and all.” 

Come, then,” said Thomas. But here a thought struck 
him. Wouldn’t it be better, though,” he added — ‘^they’re 
queer places, some of those, ain’t they ? — to put on a workman’s 
clothes ?” 

Jim looked at him. Thomas felt himself wince under his 
gaze. But he was relieved when he said, with a laugh : 

“You won’t look much like a workman, guvnor, put on 
what you like.” 

“I can’t wear these clothes, anyhow,” said Thomas ; “they 
look so wretchedly shabby after their ducking. Couldn’t you 
take me somewhere where they’d change them for a suit of 
fustian ? I should like to try how they feel for a few days. 
We’re about the same size — I could give them to you when I 
had done with them.” 

Jim had been observing him, and had associated this wish 
of Thomas’s with the poc&t-book, and his furtive, troubled 
looks. But Jim was as little particular about his company as 
about anything else, and it was of no consequence to him 
whether Thomas had or had not deeper reasons than curiosity 
for seeking to disguise himself. 

“I tell you what,” he said, “if you want to keep quiet 
for a day or two, I’m your man. But if you put on a 
new suit of fustian you’ll be more looked at than in your own 
clo’es.” 

Thomas had by this time finished his breakfast ; it was not 
much he could eat. 

“ Well,” he said, rising, “if you’ve nothing particular to do. 
I’ll give you a day’s wages to go with me. Only let’s go into 
Sfccpney, or away somewhere in that direction, as soon as pos- 
sible.” 

He called the landlady, settled his very moderate bill, and 
then found that his hat must be somewhere about the Nore by 
this time. Jim ran to a neighboring shop, and returned with 
a cloth cap. They then v/enfc out into a long, narrow street, 
Eotherhithe Street, I think, very different in aspect from any 


262 


Guild Court 


lie had seen in London before. Indeed it is more like a street 
in Cologne. Here we must leave him with his misery and Jim 
Salter, both better companions than Molken. 


CHAPTEE XXXIX. 


POPPIE CHOOSES A PROFESSION. 


When their native red began to bloom again upon the cheeks 
of Poppie, she be^an to grow restless, and the heart of the 
tailor to grow anxious. It was very hard for a wild thing to 
be kept in a cage against her will, ho thought. He did not 
mind sitting in a cage, but then he Avas used to it, and fre- 
quented it of his own free will ; whereas his child Poppie took 
after her grandfather — her mother’s father, who was a sailor, 
and never set his foot on shore but he wanted to be oE again 
within the week. 

He therefore began to reason with himself as to what ought 
to be done with her. So soon as she was quite strong again all 
her wandering habits would return, and he must make some 
provision for them. It would not only be cruel to try to break 
her of them all at once, but assuredly fruitless. Poppie would 
give him the slip some day, return to her Arab life, and render 
all sealing of the bond between father and daughter impos- 
sible. The streets were her home. She was used to them. 
They made life pleasant to her. And yet it would not do to 
let her run idle about the streets. He thought and thought 
what would bo best. 

Meantime the influence of Mattie had ^-own upon Poppie. 
Although there was as yet very little sign of anything like 
thought in her, the way she deferred to the superior intelli- 
gence in their common pursuits proved that she belonged to 
the body of humanity, and not ton: * ^ i • t. 



love of bright colors now afforded 


commence her education. Eemembering her own childhood, 
Mattie sought to interest her pupil in dolls, proceeding to 
dress one, Avhich she called Poppie, in a gorgeous scarlet cloth 
which the tailor procured for the purpose. And Poppie v/as 
interested. The color drew her to the process. By degrees, 
she took a part ; first only in waiting on Mattie, then in sew- 


263 


Poppie Chooses a Profession, 

I'ng on a button or string, at which she was awkward enough, 
as Mattie took more than necessary pains to convince hei 
learning, however, by slow degrees, to use her needle a little! 
But what was most interesting to find was, that a certain 
amount of self-consciousness began to dawn during and appar- 
ently from the doll-dressing. Her causative association with 
the outer being of the doll, led to her turning an eye upon her 
own outer being ; and Poppie’s redemption — I do not say re- 
generation — first showed itself in a desire to be dressed. Con- 
sciousness begins with regard to the body first. A baby’s first 
lesson of consciousness lies in his blue shoes. But one may ob- 
ject, ‘‘You do not call it a sign of redemption in a baby that, 
when you ask where baby’s shoes are, he holds up his little feet 
with a smile of triumph.” I answer, It must be remembered 
that PojDpie had long passed tlie age when such interest indi- 
cates natural development, and therefore she was out of the 
natural track of the human being, and a return to that track, 
indicating an awakening of the nature that was in her, may 
well be called a sign of redemption. And with a delicate in- 
stinct of his own, nourished to this particular manifestation by 
his trade, the tailor detected the interest shown in the doll by 
Poppie, as a most hopeful sign, and set himself in the midst 
of his work to get a dress ready for her, such as she would like. 
Accustomed, however, only to work in cloth, and upon male 
subjects, the result was, to say the least of it, remarkable— al- 
together admirable in Poppie’s eyes, though somewhat strange 
in those of others. She appeared one day in a scarlet jacket, 
of fine cloth, trimmed with black, which fitted her like her 
skin, and, to complete the dress, in a black skirt, likewise of 
cloth, which, however picturesque and accordant with the 
style of Poppie’s odd beauty, was at least somewhat peculiar 
and undesirable in a city like London, which persecutes men’s 
tastes if it leaves their convictions free. 

This dress Mr. Spelt had got ready in view of a contem- 
plated walk with Poppie. He was going to take her to High- 
gate on a Sunday morning, with his Bible in his pocket. I 
have already said that ho was an apparent anomaly, this Mr. 
Spelt, loving his New Testament, and having no fancy for 
going to church. How this should come about I hardly under- 
stand. Not that I do not know several instances of it in most 
excellent men, but not in his stratum. Yet what was his 
stratum ? The Spirit of God teaches men in a thousand ways, 
and Mr. Spelt knew some of the highest truths better than 
nine out of ten clergymen, I venture to say. Yet Mr. Spelt 


264 


Guild Court 


was inwardly reproached that he did not go to church, and 
made the attempt several times, with the result that he doubted 
the truth of the whole thing for half the week after. Some 
church-going reader must not condemn him at least for pre- 
ferring Higligate to the churchyard gate. 

It was a bnght frosty morning, full of life and spirit, when 
the father and daughter — for thus we accept the willful con- 
viction of the tailor, and say no more about it— set out for 
Highgate. Poppie was full of spirits, too full for her father’s 
comfort, for, every time she drew her hand from his, and 
danced away sideways or in front, he feared lest he had seen 
the last of her, and she would never more return to lay her 
hand in his. On one of these occasions, it was to dai-t a hun- 
dred yards in advance upon another little girl, who was list- 
lessly standing at a crossing, take the broom from her hand, 
and begin to sweep vigorously. Nor did she cease sweeping 
till she had made the crossing clean, by which time her father 
had come up. She held out her hand to him, received in it a 
ready penny, and tossed it to the girl. Then she put her hand 
in his again, and trotted along with him, excited and sedate 
both at once. 

Would you like to sweep a crossing, Poppie asked he. 

Wouldn’t I just, daddie ? I should get no end o’ ha’- 
pence.” 

What would you do with them when you got them ?” 

‘‘ Give them to poor girls. I don’t want them, you see, 
now I’m a lady,” 

Yfhat makes a lady of you, then ?” 

I’ve got a father of my own, all to myself — ^that makes a 
lady of me, I suppose. Anyhow I know I am a lady now. 
Look at my jacket.” 

I do not know that Mr. Spelt thought that her contempt of 
money, or rather want of faith in it, went a good way to make 
her a very peculiar lady indeed ; but he did think that he 
would buy her a broom the first day he saw the attraction of 
the streets grow too strong for Guild Couii;. 

This day, things did not go quite to the tailor’s mind. He 
took Popj)ie to a little public-house which he had known for 
many years, for it was kept by a cousin of his. There he or- 
dered his half-pint of beer, carried it with him to a little ar- 
bor in the garden, now getting very bare of its sheltering 
loaves, sat down with Poppie, pulled out his Bible, and began 
to read to her. But he could not get her to mind him. Ev- 
ery other moment she was up and out of the arbor, nov/ after 


265 


Poppie Chooses a Profession. 

one tiling, now after another ; now it was a spider busily roll- 
ing up a % in his gluey weft ; now it was a chicken escaped 
from the hen-house, and scratching about as if it preferred find- 
ing its own living even in an irregular fashion ; and now a 
bird of the air that sowed not nor reaped, and yet was taken 
care of. 

Come along, Poppie,” said her father ; I want you to 
listen.’’ 

^^Yes, daddie,” Poppie would answer, returning instantly; 
but in a moment, ere a sentence was finished, she would be 
half across the garden. He gave it up in despair. 

Why ain’t you reading, daddie ? ” she said, after one of 
these excursions. 

Because you won’t listen to a word of it, Poppie.” 

Oh ! yes ; here I am,” she said. 

‘^Come, then ; I will teach you to read.” 

Yes,” said Poppie, and was ofi after another sparrow. 

‘^Do you know that God sees you, Poppie ?” asked Mr. 
Spelt. 

I don’t mind,” answered Poppie. 

He sighed and closed his book, drank the last of his half- 
pint of beer, and rose to go. Poppie seemed to feel that she 
had displeased him, for she followed without a word. They 
went across the fields to Hampstead, and then across more 
fields to the Finchley Koad. In passing the old church, the 
deeper notes of the organ reached their ears. 

There,” said Poppie ; ‘‘I sujDpose that’s God making his 
thunder. Ain’t it, daddie ? ” 

“Ho. It’s not that,” answered Spelt. 

“ It’s there he keeps it, anyhow,” said Poppie, “ I’ve heard 
it coming out many a time.” 

“Was you never in one o’ them churches?” asked her 
father. 

“Ho,” answered Popjne. 

“Would you like to go ?” he asked again, with the hope 
that something might take hold of her. 

“If you went with me,” she said. 

How Mr. Spelt had heard of Mr. Fuller from Mr. Kitely, 
and had been once to hear him preach. He resolved to take 
Poppie to his church that evening. 

My reader will see that the child had already made some 
progress. She talked at least. How this began I cannot ex- 
plain. Ho fresh sign of thought or of conscience in a child 
comes into my notice but I feel it like a miracle — a something 


266 


GwM Court. 


that cannot be accounted for save in attributing it to a great 
Thought that can account for it. 

They got upon an omnibus, to Poppie^s great delight, and 
rode back into the city. After they had had some tea they 
went to the evening service, where they saw Lucy, and Mattie 
with her father. Mattie was veiy devout, and listened even 
when she could not understand ; Poppie only stared, and 
showed by her restlessness that she wanted to be out again. 
When they were again in the street she asked just one 
question : Why did Jesus Christ put on that ugly black 
thing ? ” 

‘‘ That wasn’t Jesus Christ,” said Mattie, with a little Phar- 
isaical horror. 

Oh ! wasn’t it ?” said Poppie, in a tone of disappointment. 

7- thought it was.” 

Oh, Poppie, Poppie ! ” said poor Mr. Spelt ; haven’t I 
told you twenty times that Jesus Christ was the Son of God ?” 

But he might have told her a thousand times. Poppie could 
not recall what she had no apprehension of when she heard it. 
What was Mr. Spelt to do ? He had tried and tried, but he 
had got no idea into her yet. But Poppie had no objection 
either to religion in general, or to any dogma whatever in par- 
ticular. It was simply that she stood in no relation of con- 
sciousness toward it or any part or phrase of it. Even Mattie’s 
attempts resulted in the most grotesque conceptions and fan- 
cies. But that she was willing to be taught, an instance which 
soon followed will show. 

Her restlessness increasing, and her father dreading lest she 
should be carried away by some sudden impulse of lawlessness, 
he bought her a broom one day — the best he could find, of 
course — and told her she might, if she pleased, go and sweep 
a crossing. Poppie caught at the broom, and vanished without 
a word. Hot till she was gone beyond recall did her father 
bethink himself that the style of her dress was scarcely ac- 
cordant with the profession she was about to assume. She 
was more like a child belonging to a traveling theater than 
any other. He remembered, too, that crossing-sweepers are 
exceedingly tenacious of their rights, and she might get into 
trouble. He could not keep quiet ; his work made no prog- 
ress ; and at last he 5 delded to his anxiety and went out to 
look for her. But he wandered without success, lost half his 
day, and returned disconsolate. 

At their dinner-hour Poppie came home ; but, alas ! with 
her brilliant jacket nearly as dirty as her broom, the appear- 


Poppie Chooses a Profession. 267 

ance of wliicli certainly indicated work. Spelt stooped as 
usual, but hesitated to lift her to his nest. 

‘‘ Oh, Poppie/’ he expostulated, what a mess you’ve made 
of yourself !” 

’Tain’t mo, daddie,” she answered. It’s them nasty boys 
would throw dirt at me. ’Tv/asn’t their crossing I took — they 
hadn’t no call to chivy me. But I give it them.” 

‘^What did you do, Poppie?” asked her father, a little 
anxiously. 

I looks up at St. Pauls’s, and I says, ^ Please, Jesus Christ, 
help me to give it ’em.’ And then I flies at ’em with my 
broom, and I knocks one o’ them down, and a cart went over 
his leg, and he’s took to the ’ospittle. I believe his leg’s 
broke.” 

“ Oh, Poppie ! And didn’t they say anything to you ? I 
wonder they didn’t take you up.” 

‘^They couldn’t find me. I thought Jesus Christ would 
help me. He did.” 

What was Mr. Spelt to say ? He did not know ; and, there- 
fore, unlike some, who would teach others even when they 
have nothing to impart, he held his peace. But he took 
good care not to let her go out in that dress any more. 

Didn’t you get any ha’pence ? ” he asked. 

Yes. 1 gave ’em all to the boy. I wouldn’t if the cart 
hadn’t gone over him, though. Catch me ! ” 

‘‘Why did you give them to him ?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. I wanted to.” 

“ Did he take them ? ” 

“ Course he did. Why shouldn’t he ? I’d ha’ tookt ’em.” 

Mr. Spelt resolved at last to consult Mr. Fuller about the 
child. He went to sec him, and told him all he knew con- 
cerning her. To his surprise, however, when he came to her 
onset with the broom, Mr. Fuller burst into a fit of the hearti- 
est laughter. Spelt stood with his mouth open, staring at the 
sacred man. Mr. Fuller saw his amazement. 

“ You don’t think it was very wicked of your poor child to 
pray to God and shoulder her "broom, do you ?” he said, still 
laughing. 

“ We’re told to forgive our enemies, sir. And Poppie prayed 
against hers.” 

“Yes, yes. You and I have heard that, and, I hope, learned 
it. But Poppie, if she has heard it, certainly does not under- 
stand it yet. Do you ever read the Psalms ? ” 

“ Yes, sometimes. Some of them pretty often, sir.” 


268 


Guild Court 


^^You will remember, then, how Dayid prays against his 
enemies ? ” 

Yes, sir. It’s rather awful, sometimes.” 

What do you make of it ? W as it wicked in David to do so ? ” 

^‘1 daren’t say that, sir.” 

Then why should you think it was in Poppie ?” 
think perhaps David didn’t know better.” 

And you think Poppie ought to know better than David ?” 

^^Why, you see, sir, if I’m right, as I fancy, David lived 
before our Saviour came into the world to teach us better.” 

And so you think Poppie more responsible than a man 
like David, who loved God as not one Christian in a million, 
notwithstanding that the Saviour is come, has learned to love 
him yet ? A man may love God, and pray against his enemies. 
Mind you, I’m not sure that David hated them. I know he 
did not love them, but I am not sure that he hated them. 
And I am sure Poppie did not hate hers, for she gave the little 
rascal her coppers, you know.” 

‘‘Thank you, sir,” said Spelt, grateful to the heart’s core 
that Mr. Fuller stood up for Popj^ie. 

“Do you think God heard David’s prayers against his ene- 
mies ? ” resumed Mr. Fuller. 

“ He gave him victory over them, anyhow.” 

“And God gave Poppie the victory, too. I think God 
heard Poppie’s prayer. And Poppie will be the better for it. 
She’ll pray for a different sort of thing before she’s done pray- 
ing. It is a good thing to pray to God for anything. It is a 
grand thing to begin to pray. ” 

“I vdsh you would try and teach her something, sir. I 
have tried and tried, and I don’t know what to do more. I 
don’t seem to get anything into her.” 

“You’re quite wrong, Mr. Spelt. You have taught her. 
She prayed to God before she fell upon her enemies with her 
broom.’’ 

“But I do want her to believe. I confess to you, sir, I’ve 
never been much of a church-goer, but I do believe in Christ.” 

“It doesn’t much matter whether you go to church or not 
if you believe in him. Tell me how you came to hear or know 
about him without going to church.” 

“My wife was a splendid woman, sir — Poppie’s mother, 
but — you see, sir — she wasn’t — she didn’t — she v^as a bit of a 
disappointment to me.” 

“Yes. And what then ? ” 

“ I took to reading the Bible, sir.” 


269 


Popple Chooses a Profession. 

Whj did you do that ? ” 
don’t know, sir. But somehow, bein’ unhappy, and 
knowin’ no way out of it, I took to the Bible, sir. I don’t 
know why or wherefore, but that’s the fact. And when I 
began to read, I began to think about it. And from then I 
began to think about everything that came in my way — 
a tryin’ to get things all square in my own head, you know, sir.” 

Mr. Fuller was delighted with the man, and having prom- 
ised to think what he could do for Poppie, they parted. And 
here I may mention that Spelt rarely missed a Sunday morn- 
ing at Mr. Fuller’s church after this. For he had found a 
fellow-man who could teach him, and that the Bible was not 
the sole means used by God to make his children grow : their 
brothers and sisters must have a share in it too. 

Mr. Fuller set about making Poppie’s acquaintance. And 
first he applied to Mattie, in order to find out what kind of 
thing Poppie liked. Mattie told him lollipops. But Mr. Ful- 
ler preferred attacking the town of Mansoul at the gate of one 
of the nobler senses, if possible. He tried Lucy, who told him 
about the bit of red glass and the buttons. So Mr. Fuller 
presented his friendship’s offering to Poppie in the shape of 
the finest kaleidoscope he could purchase. It was some time 
before she could be taught to shut one ej^e and look v/ith the 
other ; but when at length she succeeded in getting a true 
vision of the wonders in the inside of the thing, she danced 
and shouted for joy. This confirmed Mr. Fuller’s opinion 
that it was through her eyes, and not through her ears, that 
he must approach Poppie’s heart. She had never been accus- 
tomed to receive secondary impressions : all her impressions, 
hitherto, had come immediately through the senses. Mr. 
Fuller therefore concluded that he could reach her mind more 
readily through the seeing of her e3^es than such hearing of the 
ears as had to be converted by the imagination into visual 
forms before it could make any impression. ^ He must get her 
to ask questions by showing her eyes what might suggest them. 
And Protestantism having deprived the Church of almost all 
means of thus appealing to the eye as an inlet of truth, he was 
compelled to supply the deficiency as he best could. I do not 
say that Mr. Fuller would have filled his church with gorgeous 
paintings as things in general, and artists in especial, are. 
He shrunk in particular from the more modern representations 
of our Lord given upon canvas, simply because he felt them to 
be so unlike him, showing him either as effeminately soft, or 
as pompously condescending ; but if he could have filled his 


270 


Guild Court 


church with pictures in which the strength exalted the tender- 
ness, and the majesty was glorified by the homeliness, he 
^rould haye said that he did not see why painted windows 
should be more consistent with Protestantism than painted 
walls. Lacking such aids, he must yet provide as he could 
that kind of instruction which the early Church judged need- 
ful for those of its members who were in a somewhat similar 
condition to that of Poppie. He therefore began searching 
the print-shops, till he got together about a dozen of such 
engravings, mostly from the old masters, as he thought would 
represent our Lord in a lovable aspect, and make the child 
want to have them explained. For Poppie had had no big 
family Bible with pictures, to pore over in her homeless child- 
hood ; and now she had to go back to such a beginning. 

By this time he had so far ingratiated himself with her that 
she was pleased to accompany Mattie to tea v/ith him, and 
then the pictures made their appearance. This took place 
again and again, till the pictures came to be looked for as part 
of the entertainment — Mr. Fuller adding one now and then, 
as he was fortunate in his search, for he never passed a fresh 
print-shop without making inquiiy after such engravings. 

Meantime Poppie went out crossing-sweeping by fits and 
starts. Her father neither encouraged nor prevented her. 

One afternoon of a eold day, when the wind from the east 
was blowing the darkness over the city, and driving all who 
had homes and could go to them home for comfort, they were 
walking hand in hand in Farringdon Street — a very bleak, 
open place. Poppie did not feel the cold nearly so much as 
her father, but she did blow upon the fingers of her disengaged 
hand now and then notwithstanding. 

‘^Have a potato to warm you, Poppie,” said her father, as 
they came up to one of those little steam-engines for cooking 
potatoes, which stand here and there on the edges of the pave- 
ments about London, blowing a fierce cloud of steam from 
their little funnels, so consoling to the half-frozen imagination. 

Jolly !” cried Poppie, running up to the man, and laying 
her hand on the greasy sleeve of his velveteen coat. 

I say, Jim, give us a ha’porth,” she said. 

Why, TainT never you, Poppie ?” returned the man. 

‘‘Why ain’t it ?” said Poppie. “Here’s my father. Pve 
found one, and a good ’un, Jim.” 

The man looked at Poppie’s dress, then at Mr. Spelt, touched 
the front of his cloth cap, and said : 

“ Good evenin’, guvnor.” Then in an undertone he added. 


271 


Poppie Chooses a Profession. 

I say, gnynor, you never did better in your life than takin’ 
that ’ere pretty creetur off the streets. You look well arter 
her. She’s a right good un, I know. Bless you, she ain’t no 
knowledge what wickedness means.” 

In the warmth of his heart, Mr. Spelt seized the man’s 
hand, and gave it a squeeze of gratitude. 

‘‘ Come, Jim, ain’t your taters done yet ?” said Poppie. 

^‘Bustin’ o’ mealiness,” answered Jim, throwing back the 
lid, and taking out a potato, which he laid in the hollow of his 
left hand. Then he caught up an old and I fear dirty knife, 
and split the potato lengthways. Then, with the same knife, 
he took a piece of butter from somewhere about the appara- 
tus — though how it was not oil instead of butter I cannot 
think — laid it into the cleft as if it had been a trowelful of 
mortar, gave it a top-dressing of salt and a shake of the pepper- 
box, and handed it to Poppie. 

‘^Same for you, sir ?” he asked. 

^^Well, I don’t mind if Ido have one,” answered Spelt. 

Are they good ? ” 

The best and the biggest at the price in all London,” said 
Jim. Taste one,” he went on, as he prepared another, 
^^and if you like to part with it then. I’ll take it back and eat 
it myself.” 

Spelt paid for the potatoes — the sum of three ha’pence — 
and Poppie, bidding Jim good-night, trotted away by his side, 
requiring both her hands now for the management of her 
potato, at which she was more expert than her father, for he, 
being nice in his ways, found the butter and the peel together 
troublesome. 

^^I say, ain’t it jolly ?” remarked Poppie. ^‘I call that a 
good trade now.” 

Would you like to have one o’ them things and sell hot 
potatoes ? ” asked her father. 

Just wouldn’t I ?” 

As well as sweeping a crossing ? ” 

^^A deal better,” answered Poppie. ^^You see, daddie, it’s 
more respectable — a deal. It takes money to buy a thing like 
that. And I could wear my red jacket then. hTobody could 
say anything then, for the thing would be my own, and a 
crossing belongs to everybody.” 

Mr. Spelt turned the matter over and over in his mind, and 
thought it might be a good plan for giving Poppie some lib- 
erty, and yet keeping her from roving about everywhere with- 
out object or end. So he began at once to work for a potato- 


272 


Guild Court 


steamer for Poppie, and, in the course, of a fortnight, managed 
to buy her one. Great was Poppie’s delight. 

She went out regularly in the dusk to the corner of Bagot 
Street. Her father carried the machine for her, and leaving 
her tWe with it, returned to his work. In following her new 
occupation, the child met with little annoyance, for this was a 
respectable part of the city, and the police knew her, and were 
inclined to protect her. One of her chief customers was Mr. 
Spelt himself, who would always once, sometimes twice, of an 
evening, lay down his work, scramble from his perch, and, 
running to the corner of the street, order a potato, ask her 
how she was getting on, pay his ha’penny or penny, and hurry 
hack with the hot handful to console him for the absence of 
his darling. Having eaten it, chuckling and rejoicing, he 
would attack his work with vigor so renewed as soon to make 
up for the loss of time involved in procuring it. But keeping 
out of view the paternal consumption, Poppie was in a fair 
way of paying all the expense of the cooking apparatus. Mr. 
and Miss Kitely were good customers, too, and everything 
looked well for father and daughter. 

Every night, at half-past nine, her father was by her side to 
carry tne ‘‘murphy-buster” — that was Jim’s name for it — 
home. There was no room for it in the shop, of course. He 
took it up the three flights of stairs to Poppie’s own room ; 
and there, with three-quarters of a pint of beer to wash them 
down, they finished the remaining potatoes, “ with butter, 
with pepper, and with salt,” as Poppie would exclaim, in the 
undisguised delight of her sumptuous fare. Sometimes there 
were none left, but that gave only a variety to their pleasures ; 
for as soon as the engine, as Mr. Spelt called it, was deposited 
in safety, they set out to buy their supper. And great were 
the consultations to which, in Mr. Spelt’s desire to draw out 
the choice and judgment of his daughter, this proceeding 
gave rise. At one time it was a slice of beef or ham that was 
resolved upon, at another a bit of pudding, sometimes a couple 
of mutton-pies or sausages, with bread ad libitum. There w^as 
a cookshop in the neighborhood, whose window was all be- 
clouded with jets of steam, issuing as from a volcanic soil, and 
where all kinds of hot dainties were ready for the fortunate 
purchaser : thither the two would generally repair, and hold 
their consultation outside the window. Then, the desirable 
thing once agreed upon, came the delight of buying^it, always 
left to Poppie ; of carrying it home, still left to Poppie ; of 
eating it, not left to Poppie, but heightened by the s^^mpa- 


Thomas's Mother, 


273 


thetic participation of her father. Followed upon all, the 
chapter in the Bible, the Lord’s Prayer, bed, and dreams of 
Mrs. Flanaghan and her gin-bottle, or, perhaps, of Lucy and 
her first kiss. 




CHAPTEE XL. 

THOMAS’S MOTHER. 

Meantime Mrs. Worboise had taken to her bed, and not 
even Mr. Simon could comfort her. The mother’s heart now 
spoke louder than her theology. 

She and her priest belonged to a class more numerous than 
many of my readers would easily believe, a great part of whose 
religion consists in arrogating to themselves exclusive privi- 
leges, and another great part in defending their supposed 
rights from the intrusion of others. The thing does not look 
such to them, of course, but the repulsiveness of their behavior 
to those who cannot use the same religious phrases, indicating 
the non-adoption of their particular creed, compels others so 
to conclude concerning their religion. Doubtless they would 
say for themselves, ‘‘We do but as'God has taught us ; we be- 
lieve but as he has told us ; v/e exclude whom he has excluded, 
and admit whom he has admitted.” But, alas for that people ! 
the god of whose worship is altogether such a one as themselves, 
or worse ; whose god is paltry, shallow-minded and full of party 
spirit ; who sticks to a thing because he has said it, accepts a man 
because of his assent, and condemns him because of his opinions ; 
who looks no deeper than a man’s words to find his thoughts, 
and no deeper than his thoughts to find his will ! True, they 
are in the hands of another God than that of their making, 
and such offenses must come ; yet, alas for them ! for they are 
of the hardest to redeem into the childhood of the kingdom. 

I do not say that Mrs. Worboise began to see her sin as 
such, when the desolation of Thomas’s disappearance fell upon 
her, but the atmosphere of her mind began to change, and a 
spring-season of mother’s feelings to set in. How it came 
about I cannot explain. I as well as any of my readers might 
have felt as if Mrs. Worboise were almost beyond redemption ; 
but it was not so. Her redemption came in the revival of a 
long suppressed motherhood. Her husband’s hardness and 
want of sympathy with her sufferings had driven her into the 
18 


274 


Guild Court. 


arms of a party of exclusive Christians, whose brotherhood 
consisted chiefly, as I have already described it, in denying the 
great brotherhood, and refusing the hand of those who fol- 
lowed not with them. They were led by one or two persons of 
some social position, whose condescending assumption of supe- 
riority over those that Avere without was as offensive as absurd, 
and whose weak brains Avere their only excuse. The Avorst 
thing of this company was that it was a company. In inany 
holding precisely the same opinions with them, those opinions 
are comparatively harmless, because they are more directly 
counteracted by the sacred influences of God’s world and the 
necessities of things, which are very needful to prevent, if pos- 
sible, self-righteous Christians from sending themselves to a 
deeper hell than any they denounce against their neigh- 
bors. But wlien such combine themselves into an esoteric 
school, they foster, as in an oven or a forcing-pit, all the 
worst distinctions for the sake of which they separate them- 
selves from others. All that Avas AVorst in poor Mrs. Wor- 
boise was cherished by the companionship of those whose chief 
anxiety was to save their souls, and who thus ran the great risk 
set forth by the Saviour of losing them. They treated the Avords 
of the Bible like talismans or spells, the virtue of Avhich lay in 
the words, and in the assent given to them, or at most, the 
feelings that could be conjured up by them, not in the doing 
of the things they presupposed or commanded. But there 
was one thing that did something to keep her fresh and pre- 
vent her from withering into a dry tree of supposed orthodoxy, 
the worst dr3rDess of all, because it is the least likely to yield to 
any fresh burst of living sap from the forgotten root — that was 
her anxiety to get her son within the garden walled around,” 
and the continual disappointment of her efforts to that end. 

But now that the shock of his flight had aggravated all the 
symptoms of her complaint, which was a serious one though 
slow in the movement of its progressive cycles, now that she 
was confined to her bed and deprived of the small affairs that 
constituted the dull excitements of her joyless life, her 
imagination, roused by a reaction from the first grief, 
continually presented to her the form of her darling 
in the guise of the prodigal, his handsome face worn 
with hunger and wretchedness, or still worse, with dissipation 
and disease ; and she began to accuse herself bitterly for hav- 
ing alienated his affections from herself by too assiduously 
forcing upon his attention that which was distasteful to him. 
She said to herself that it was easy for an old woman like her, 


Thomases Mother. 


275 


who had been disappointed in everything, and whose life and 
health were a wreck, to turn from the vanities of the world ; 
but how could her young Thomas, in the glory of youth, be 
expected to see things as she saw them ? How could he flee 
from the wrath to come when he had as yet felt no breath of 
that wrath on his cheek ? She ought to have loved him, and 
borne with him, and smiled upon him, and never let him 
fancy that his presence was a pain to her because he could not 
take her ways for his. Add to this certain suspicions that 
arose in her mind from what she considered unfriendly neglect 
on the part of the chief man of their chosen brotherhood, and 
from the fact that her daughter Amy had already wrought a 
questionable change on Mr. Simon, having persuaded him to 
accompany her — not to the theatre at all — only to the Gallery 
of Illustration, and it will be seen that everything tended to 
turn the waters of her heart back into the old channel with the 
flow of a spring-tide toward her son. She wept and prayed — 
better tears and better prayers because her love was stronger. 
She humbled her heart, proud of its acceptance with God, be- 
fore a higher idea of that God. She began to doubt whether 
she was more acceptable in his sight than other people. There 
must be some who were, but she could not be one of them. 
Instead of striving after assurance, as they called it, she began 
to shrink from every feeling that lessened her humility ; for 
she found that when she was most humble then she could best 
pray for her son. Not that had her assurance rested in the 
love of God it would ever have quenched her prayer ; but her 
assurance had been taught to rest upon her consciousness of 
faith, which, unrealized, tended to madness — realized, to spir- 
itual pride. She lay thus praying for him, and dreaming 
about him, and hoping that he would return before she died, 
when she would receive him as son had never before been 
welcomed to his mother’s bosom. 

But Mr. Worboise’s dry, sand-locked bay was open to the 
irruption of no such waters from the great deep of the eternal 
love. Narrow and poor as it was, Mrs. Worboise’s religion 
had yet been as a little wedge to keep her door open to better 
things, when they should arrive and claim an entrance, as 
they had now done. But her husband’s heart was full of 
money and the love of it. How to get money, how not to 
spend it, how to make it grow — these were the chief cares that 
filled his heart. His was not the natural anxiety the objects 
of which, though not the anxiety, were justified by the Lord 
when he said, Your Father knoweth that ye have need of 


276 


Guild Court, 


tliese tilings.” It was not what he needed that filled his mind 
with care, but what he did not need, and never would need ; 
nay, what other people needed, and what was not his to take — 
not his in God’s sight, whatever the law might say. And to 
God’s decision everything must come at last, for that is the 
only human verdict of things, the only verdict which at last 
will satisfy the whole jury of humanity. But I am wrong ; 
this was not all that filled his heart. One demon generally 
opens the door to another — they are not jealous of exclusive 
possession of the human thrall. The heart occuiiied by the 
love of money will be only too ready to fall a prey to other 
evils ; for selfishness soon branches out in hatred and injustice. 
The continued absence of his son, which he attributed still to 
the Boxalls, irritated more than alarmed him ; but if some- 
times a natural feeling of dismay broke in upon him, it only 
roused yet more the worst feelings of his heart against Lucy 
and her grandmother. Every day to which Thomas’s absence 
extended itself, his indignation sank deeper rather than rose 
higher. Every day he vowed that, if favored by fortune, he 
would make them feel in bitterness how deeply they had in- 
jured him. To the same account he entered all the annoyance 
given him by the well-meaning Mr. Sargent, who had only as 
yet succeeded in irritating him without gaining the least 
advantage over him. His every effort in resistance of probate 
failed. The decision of the court was that Mr. Boxall, a 
strong, healthy, well-seasoned, middle-aged man, was far more 
likely to have outlived all his daughters, than any one of them 
have outlived him ; therefore Mr. Worboise obtained probate 
and entered into possession. 

Although Mr. Sargent could not but have at least more 
than doubted the result, he felt greatly discomfited at it. He 
went straight to Mr. Morgenstern’s office to communicate his 
failure and the foiling of the liberality which had made the 
attempt possible. Mr. Morgenstern only smiled, and wrote him 
a check for the costs. Of course, being a Jew, he did not en- 
joy parting with his money for nothing — no Christian would 
have minded it in the least. Seriously, Mr. Morgenstern did 
throw half his cigar into the fire from annoyance. But his 
first words were : 

What’s to be done for those good people, then, Sargent ? ” 

We must wait till we see. I think I told you that the old 
lady has a claim upon the estate, which, most unfortunately, she 
cannot establish. Now, however, that tins cormorant has had 
his own way, ho will perhaps be inclined to be generous ; for 


277 


Lucy^s New Trouble. 

justice must be allowed in this case to put on the garb of 
generosity, else she will not appear in public, I can tell you. 
I mean to make this one attempt more. I confess to consider- 
able misgiving, however. To-morrow, before his satisfaction 
has evaporated, I will make it, and let you know the result.” 
By this time Mr. Morgenstern had lighted another cigar. 


CHAPTEK XLI. 

Lucres NEW TROUBLE. 

Mr. Sargent’s next application to Mr. Worboise, made on 
the morning after the decision of the court in his favor, shared 
the fate of all his preceding attempts. Mr. Worboise smiled it 
off. There was more inexorableness expressed in his smile 
than in another’s sullen imprecation. The very next morning 
Mrs. Boxall was served with notice to quit at the approaching 
quarter-day; for she had no agreement, and paid no rent, 
consequently she was tenant only on sufferance. And now 
Mr. Stopper’s behavior toward them underwent a considerable 
change ; not that he was in the smallest degree rude to them ; 
but, of course, there was now no room for that assumption of 
the confidential by which he had sought to establish the most 
friendly relations between himself and the probable proprietors 
of the business in which he hoped to secure his position, not 
merely as head-clerk, but as partner. The door between the 
house and the office was once more carefully locked, and the 
key put in his drawer, and having found how hostile his new 
master was to the inhabitants of the house, he took care to 
avoid every suspicion of intimacy with them. 

Mrs. Boxall’s paroxysm of indignant rage when she received 
the notice to quit was of course as impotent as the bursting of 
a shell in a mountain of mud. Erom the first, however, her 
anger had had this effect, that everybody in the court, down 
to lowly and lonely Mr. Dolman, the cobbler, knew all the 
phases of her oppression and injury. Lucy never said a word 
about it, save to Mr. and Mrs. Morgenstern, whose offer of 
shelter for herself and her grandmother till they could see 
what was to be done, she gratefully declined, knowing that 
her grandmother would die rather than accept such a position. 


278 


Guild Court, 


There’s nothing left for me in my old age but the work- 
house,” said Mrs. Boxall, exhausted by one of her outbursts of 
fierce vindictive passion against the author of her misfortunes, 
which, as usual, ended in the few bitter tears that are left to 
the aged to shed. 

‘^Grannie, grannie,” said Lucy, don’t talk like that. 
You have been a mother to me. See if I cannot be a daughter 
to you. I am quite able to keep you and myself too as com- 
fortable as ever. See if I can’t.” 

Nonsense, child. It will be all that you can do to keep 
yourself ; and I’m not a-going to sit on the neck of a young 
thing like you, just like a nightmare, and have you wishing 
me gone from morning to night.” 

I don’t deserve that you should say that of me, grannie. 
But I’m sure you don’t think as you say. And as to being 
able, with Mrs. Morgenstern’s recommendation I can get as 
much teaching as I can undertake. I am pretty sure of that, 
and you know it will only be paying you back a very little of 
your own, grannie.” 

Before Mrs. Boxall could reply, for she felt reproached for 
having spoken so to her grand-daughter, there was a tap at the 
door, and Mr. Kitely entered. 

Begging your pardon, ladies, and taking the liberty of a 
neighbor, I made bold not to trouble you by ringing the bell. 
I’ve got something to speak about in the way of business.” 

So saying, the worthy bookseller, who had no way of doing 
anything but going at it like a bull, drew a chair near the 
fire. 

With your leave, ma’am, it’s as easy to speak sitting as 
standing. So, if you don’t object. I’ll sit down.” 

^^Do sit down, Mr. Kitely,” said Lucy. We’re glad to 
see you — though you know we’re in a little trouble just at 
present.” 

I know all about that, and I don’t believe there’s a creat- 
ure in the court, down to Mrs. Cook’s cat, that isn’t ready to 
fiy at that devil’s limb of a lawyer. But you see, ma’am, if 
we was to murder him it wouldn’t be no better for you. And 
what I come to say to you is this ; I’ve got a deal more room 
on my promises than I want, and it would be a wonderful ac- 
commodation to me, not to speak of the honor of it, if you 
would take charge of my little woman for me. I can’t inter- 
fere with her, you know, so as to say she’s not to take care of 
me, you know, for that would go nigh to break her little heart ; 
but if you would come and live there as long as convenient to 


279 


Lucy's New Trouble, 

you, you could get things for yourselves all the same as you 
does here, only you wouldn’t have nothing to be out of pocket 
for house-room, you know. It would be, the making of my 
poor motherless Mattie.” 

‘‘Oh ! we’re not going to be so very poor as grannie thinks, 
Mr. Kitely,” said Lucy, trying to laugh, while the old lady sat 
rocking herself to and fro and wiping her eyes. “ But I 
should like to move into your house, for thei’e’s nowhere I 
should be so much at home.” 

“Lucy ! ” said her grandmother, warningly. 

“ Stop a bit, grannie. Mr. Kitely’s a real friend in need ; 
and if I had not such a regard for him as I have, I would take 
it as it’s meant. I’ll tell you what, Mr. Kitely ; it only comes 
to this, that I have got to work a little harder, and not lead 
such an idle life with my grannie here.” 

“ You idle, miss ! ” interrupted the bookseller. “ I never 
see any one more like the busy bee tluin yourself, only that you 
was always a-wastin’ of your honey on other people ; and that 
they say ain’t the way of the bees.” 

“But you won’t hear me out, Mr. Kitely. It would be a 
shame of me to go and live in anybody’s house for nothing, 
seeing I am quite able to pay for it. Now, if you have room in 
your house — ” 

“ Miles of it,” cried the bookseller. 

“I don’t know where it can be, then; for it’s as full of 
books from the ground to the garret as — as — as my darling old 
grannie here is of independence. ” 

“ Don’t you purtend to know more about my house, miss, 
than I does myself. Just you say the word, and before quar- 
ter-day you’ll find two rooms fit for your use and at your ser- 
vice. What I owe to you, miss, in regard of my little one, 
nothing I can do can ever repay. They’re a bad lot them 
Worboises — son and father ! and that I saw — ^leastways in the 
young one.” 

This went with a sting to poor Lucy’s heart. She kept hop- 
ing and hoping, and praying to God : but her little patch of 
blue sky was so easily overclouded ! But she kept to the mat- 
ter before her. 

“ Very well, Mr. Kitely ; you ought to know best. Now for 
my side of the bargain. 1 told you already that I would rather 
be in your house than anywhere else, if I must leave this dear 
old place. And if you will let me pay a reasonable sum, as 
lodgings go in this court, we’ll regard the matter as settled. 
And then I can teach Mattie a little, you know.” 


280 


Guild Court 


Mrs. Boxall did not put in a word. The poor old lady was 
beginning to weary of everything, and for the first time in her 
life began to allow her affairs to be meddled with — as she 
would no doubt even now consider it. And the sound of pay- 
ing for it was very satisfactory. I suspect part of Lucy’s de- 
sire to move no farther than the entrance of the court, came 
from the hope that Tliomas would some day or other turn up 
in that neighborhood, and perhaps this emboldened her to 
make the experiment of taking the matter so much into her 
own hands. Mr. Kitely scratched his head, and looked a little 
annoyed. 

^^Well, miss,” he said, pausing between every few words, a 
most unusual thing with him, that’s not a bit of what I 
meant when I came up the court here. But that’s better than 
nothing — for Mattie and me, I mean. So if you’ll be reason- 
able about the rent, we’ll easily manage all the rest. Mind 
you, miss, it’ll be all clear profit to me.” 

It’ll cost you a good deal to get the rooms put in order as 
you say, you know, Mr. Kitely.” 

‘^Kot much, miss. I know how to set about things better 
than most people. Bless you, I can buy wall-papers for half 
what you’d pay for them now. I know the trade. I’ve been 
a-most everything in my day. Why, miss, I lived at one time 
such a close shave with dying of hunger, that, after I was mar- 
ried, I used to make picture frames and then pawn my tools 
to get glass to put into them, and then carry them about to 
sell, and when I had sold ’em I bought more gold-beading and 
redeemed my tools, and did it all over again. Bless you ! I 
know what it is to be hard up, if anybody ever did. I once 
walked from Bristol to Newcastle upon fourpence. It won’t 
cost me much to make them rooms decent. And then there’s 
the back parlor at your service. I shan’t plague you much, 
only to take a look at my princess now and then.” 

After another interview or two between Lucy and Mr. 
Kitely, the matter was arranged, and the bookseller proceeded 
to get his rooms ready, which involved chiefly a little closer 
packing, and the getting rid of a good deal of almost unsalable 
rubbish, which had accumulated from the purchase of lots. 

Meantime another trial was gathering for poor Lucy. Mr. 
Sargent had met Mr. Wither, and had learned from him all 
he knew about Thomas. Mr. Wither was certain that every- 
thing was broken off between Lucy and him. It was not only 
known to all at the office that Thomas had disappeared, but it 
was p^fectly known as ’v^ell that for some time he had been 


281 


Lucy*s Neio Trouble, 

getting into bad ways, and his disappearance was necessarily 
connected with this fact, though no one but Mr. Stopper knew 
the precise occasion of his evanishment, and this he was, if pos- 
sible, more careful than ever to conceal. Not even to the lad’s 
father did he communicate what he knew : he kept this as a 
power over his new principal. From what he heard, Mr. Sar- 
gent resolved to see if he could get anything out of Molken, 
and called upon him for that purpose. But the German soon 
convinced him that, although he had been intimate with 
Thomas, he knew nothing about him now. The last informa- 
tion he could give him was that he had staked and lost his 
watch and a lady’s ring that he wore ; that he had gone away 
and returned with money ; and, having gained considerably, 
had disappeared and never been heard of again. It was easy 
for Mr. Sargent to persuade himself that a noble-minded creat- 
ure like Lucy, having ccme to know the worthlessness of her 
lover, had dismissed him forever; and to believe that she 
would very soon become indifferent to a person so altogether 
unworthy of her affection. Probably he was urged yet the 
more to a fresh essay from the desire of convincing her that 
his motives in the first case had not been so selfish as accident 
had made them appear ; nor that his feelings toward her re- 
mained unaltered notwithstanding the change in her prospects. 
He therefore kept up his visits, and paid them even more fre- 
quently now that there was no possible excuse on the score of 
business. For some time, however, so absorbed were Lucy’s 
thoughts that his attentions gave her no uneasiness. She con- 
sidered the matter so entirely settled, that no suspicion of the 
revival of any farther hope in the mind of Mr. Sargent arose 
to add a fresh trouble to the distress which she was doing all 
she could to bear patiently. But one day she was suddenly 
undeceived. Mrs. Boxall had just left the room. 

*^Miss Burton,” said Mr. Sargent, venture to think cir- 
cumstances may be sufficiently altered to justify me in once 
more expressing a hope that I may be permitted to regard a 
nearer friendship as possible between us.” 

Lucy started as if she had been hurt. The occurrence was 
so strange and foreign to all that was in her thoughts, that she 
had to look all around her, as it were, like a person suddenly 
awaking in a strange place. Before she could speak, her 
grandmother reentered. Mr. Sargent went away without any 
conviction that Lucy’s behavior indicated repugnance to his 
proposal. 

Often it happens that things work together without any con- 


282 


GwUd Court 


certed sclieme. Mrs. Morgenstem had easily divined Mr. Sar- 
gent’s feelings, and the very next day began to talk about him 
to Lucy. But she listened without interest, until Mrs. Mor- 
genstem touched a chord which awoke a very painful one. 
For at last her friend had got rather jiiqued at Lucy’s coldness 
and indifference. 

I think at least, Lucy, you might take a little interest in 
the poor fellow, if only from gratitude. A girl may acknowl- 
edge that feeling without compromising herself. There has 
Mr. Sargent been wearing himself out for you, lying awake at 
night, and running about all day, without hope of reward, and 
you are so taken up with your own troubles that you haven’t a 
thought for the man wno has done all that lay in human 
being’s power to turn them aside.” 

Could Lucy help comparing this conduct with that of 
Thomas ? And while she compared it, she could as little help 
the sudden inroad of the suspicion that Thomas had forsaken 
her that he might keep well with his father — the man who was 
driving them, as far as lay in his power, into the abysses of 
poverty ; and that this disappearance was the only plan he 
dared to adopt for freeing himself — for doubtless his cowardice 
would be at least as great in doing her wrong as it had been in 
refusing to do her right. And she did feel that there was 
some justice in Mrs. Morgenstem’s reproach. For if poor Mr. 
Sargent was really in love with her, she ought to pity him and 
feel for him some peculiar tenderness, for the very reason that 
she could not grant him what he desired. Her strength hav- 
ing been much undermined of late, she could not hear Mrs. 
Morgenstern’s reproaches without bursting into tears. And 
then her friend began to comfort her ; but all the time sup- 
posing that her troubles were only those connected with her 
reverse of fortune. As Lucy went home, however, a very dif- 
ferent and terrible thought darted into her mind : What if it 
was her duty to listen to Mr. Sargent ! ” There seemed no 
hope for her any more. Tliomas had forsaken her utterly. 
If she could never be happy, ought she not to be the more 
anxious to make another happy ? Was there any limit to the 
sacrifice that ought to be made for another — that is of one’s 
self ? for, alas ! it would be to sacrifice no one besides. The 
thought was indeed a terrible one. 

All the rest of the day her soul was like a drowning creature 
—now getting one breath of hope, now with all the billows and 
waves of despair going over it. The evening passed in constant 
terror, lest Mr. Sargent should appear, and a poor paltry little 


283 


Lucy's New Trouble, 


hope grew as the hands of the clock went round, and every 
moment rendered it less likely that he would come. At length 
she might go to bed without annoying her grandmother, who, 
by various little hints she dropped, gave her clearly to under- 
stand that she expected her to make a good match before long, 
and so relieve her mind about her at least. 

She went to bed, and fell asleep from very weariness of emo- 
tion. But presently she started awake again ; and, strange to 
say, it seemed to be a resolution she had formed in her sleep 
that brought her awake. It was that she would go to Mr. 
Fuller, and consult him on the subject that distressed her. 
After that she slept till the morning. 

She had no lesson to give that day, so as soon as Mr. Fuller’s 
church-bell began to ring, she put on her bonnet. Her grand- 
mother asked where she was going. She told her she was 
going to church. 

I don’t like this papist v 



day — at least in the middle 


be at their work.” 

Lucy made no reply ; for, without being one of those half 
of whose religion consists in abusing the papists, Mrs. Boxall 
was one of those who would turn from any good thing of 
which she heard first as done by those whose opinions differed 
from her own. Nor would it have mitigated her dislike to 
know that Lucy was going for the purpose of asking advice 
from Mr. Fuller. She would have denounced that as con-^ 
fession, and asked whether it was not more becoming in a 
young girl to consult her grandmother than go to a priest. 
Therefore, I say, Lucy kept her own counsel. 

There were twenty or thirty people present when she en- 
tered St. Amos’s ; a grand assembly, if we consider how time 
and place were haunted — swarming with the dirty little de- 
mons of money-making and all its attendant beggarly cares 
and chicaneries — one o’clock in the City of London ! It was 
a curious psalm they were singing, so quaint and old-fashioned, 
and so altogether unlike London in the nineteenth century ! — 
the last in the common version of Tate and Brady. They 
were beginning the fifth verse when she entered : 


“ Let them who joyful hymns compose 
To cymbals set their songs of praise ; 


Cymbals of common use, and those 
That loudly sound on solemn days.” 


Lucy did not feel at all in sympathy with cymbals. But she 


284 


Guild Court 


knew that Mr. Fuller did, else he could not have chosen that 
psalm to sing. And an unconscious operation of divine logic 
took place in her heart, with result such as might be repre- 
sented in the following process : Mr. Fuller is glad in God — ■ 
not because he thinks himself a favorite with God, but because 
God is what he is, a faithful God. He is not one thing to Mr. 
Fuller and another to me. Ho is the same though I am sor- 
rowful, I will praise him too. He will help me to be and do 
right, and that can never be anything unworthy of me.” So, 
with a trembling voice, Lucy joined in the end of the song of 
praise. And when Mr. Fuller’s voice arose in the prayer — 
0 God, whose nature and property is ever to have mercy and 
to forgive, receive our humble petitions, and though we be tied 
and bound with the chain of our sins, yet let the pitifulness of 
thy gi'eat mercy loose us : for the honor of J esus Christ, our 
Mediator and Advocate. Amen ” — she joined in it with all her 
heart, both for herself and Thomas. Then, without the for- 
mality of a text, Mr. Fuller addressed his little congregation 
something as follows : 

My friends, is it not strange that with all the old church- 
yards lying about in London, unbusiness-like spots in the midst 
of shops and warehouses, ^and all the numberless goings on of 
life,’ we should yet feel so constantly as if the business of the 
city were an end in itself ? How seldom we see that it is only 
a means to an end ! I will tell you in a few words one cause 
of this feeling as if it were an end ; and then to what end it 
really is a means. With all the reminders of death that we 
have about us, not one of us feels as if he were going to die. 
We think of other people — even those much younger than 
ourselves — dying, and it always seems as if we were going to 
he alive when they die : and why ? Just because we are not 
going to die. This thinking part in us feels no symptom of 
ceasing to be. We think on and on, and death seems far from 
us, for it belongs only to our bodies — not to us. So the soul 
forgets it. It is no part of religion to think about death. It 
is the part of religion, when the fact and thought of death 
come in, to remind us that we live forever, and that God, who 
sent his Son to die, will help us safe through that somewhat 
fearful strait that lies before us, and which often grows so ter- 
rible to those who fix their gaze upon it that they see nothing 
beyond it, and talk with poor Byron of the day of death as 
^the first dark day of nothingness.’ But this fact that %ue do 
not die, that only our bodies die, adds immeasurably to the 
folly of making what is commonly called the business of life 


285 


Lucy'*s New Trouble, 

an end instead of a means. It is not tlie business of life. 
The business of life is that which has to do witli the life — with 
the living us, not with the dying part of us. How can the 
business of life have to do with the part that is always dying ? 
Yet, certainly, as you will say, it must be done — only, mark 
this, not as an end, but as a means. As an end it has to do 
only with the perishing body ; as a means it has infinite rela- 
tions with the never-ceasing life. Then comes the question. 
To what end is it a means ? It is a means, a great, I might 
say the great, means to the end for which God sends us indi- 
vidually into a world of sin ; for that he does so, whatever the 
perplexities the admission may involve, who can deny, with- 
out denying that God makes us ? If we were sent without 
any sinful tendencies into a sinless world, we should be good, 
I dare say ; but with a very poor kind of goodness, knowing 
nothing of evil, consequently never choosing good, but being 
good in a stupid way because we could not help it. But how 
is it with us ? We live in a world of constant strife — a strife, 
as the old writers call it, following St. Paul, between the flesh 
and the spirit ; the things belonging to the outer life, the life 
of the senses, the things which our Saviour sums up in the 
words, ^what we shall eat, and what we shall drink, and 
wherewithal we shall be clothed,’ forcing themselves constantly 
on our attention, and crowding away the thought and the care 
that belong to the real life — the life that consists in purity of 
heart, in love, in goodness of all kinds — that embraces all life, 
using our own life only as the standpoint from which to stretch 
out arms of embracing toward God and toward all men. For 
the feeding and growth of this life, London city affords end- 
less opportunity. Business is too often regarded as the hin- 
drance to the spiritual life. I regard it as among the finest 
means the world affords for strengthening and causing to 
^row this inner real life. For every deed may be done accord- 
ing to the fashion of the outward perishing life, as an end ; or 
it may be done after the fashion of the inward endless life — 
done righteously, done nobly, done, upon occasion, magnifi- 
cently — ever regarded as a something to be put under the feet 
of the spiritual man to lift him to the height of his high call- 
ing. Making business a mean to such end, it will help us to 
remember that this world and the fashion of it passeth away, 
but that every deed done as Jesus would have done it if he had 
been born to begin his life as a merchant instead of a carpen- 
ter, lifts the man who so does it up tov/ard the bosom of Him 
who created business and all its complications, as well as our 


286 


Guild Court 


brains and hands that have to deal with them. If you were to 
come and ask me, ‘ How shall I do in this or that particular 
case V very possibly I might be unable to ansv/er you. Very 
often no man can decide but the man himself. And it is ]3art 
of every man’s training that he should thus decide. Even if 
he should go wrong, by going wrong he may be taught the 
higher principle that would have kept him right, and which 
he has not yet learned. One thing is certain, that the man 
who wants to go right will be guided right ; that not only in 
regard to the mission of the Saviour, but in regard to every- 
thing, he that is willing to do the will of the Father shall 
know of the doctrine. — Now to God the Father,” etc. 

The worship over, and the congregation having retired, 
Lucy bent her trembling steps toward the vestry, and there 
being none of those generally repellent ministers, pew-openers, 
about, she knocked at the door. By the way, I wish clergy- 
men were more acquainted with the nature and habits of those 
who in this lowly — alas, how far from humble — office represent 
the gospel of welcome. They ought to have at least one ser- 
mon a year preached to them upon their duties before the 
whole congregation. The reception the servants of any house 
afford has no little share in the odor of hospitality which that 
house enjoys, and hospitality is no small Christian virtue. 
Lucy’s troubled heart beat very fast as she opened the door in 
answer to Mr. Fuller’s cheerful Come in.” But the moment 
she saw Mr. Fuller she felt as if she had been guilty of an act 
of impropriety, and ought to have waited in the church till he 
came out. She drew back with a murmured “ I beg your par- 
don,” but Mr. Fuller at once reassured her. He came for- 
ward, holding out his hand. 

How do you do. Miss Burton ? I am delighted to see 
you. By your coming to the vestry, like a brave woman, I 
suppose there is something I can do for you. Let me hear all 
about it. Sit down.” 

So saying, he gave her a chair, and seated himself on the 
only remaining one. And as soon as she saw that Mr. Fuller 
was not shocked at her forwardness, such was Lucy’s faith in 
him, that her courage returned, and with due regard to his 
time and her own dignity, she proceeded at once to explain to 
him the difficulty in which she found herself. It was a lovely 
boldness in the maiden, springing from faith and earnestness 
and need, that enabled her to set forth in a few plain words 
the main points of her case — that she had been engaged for 
many months to a youth who seemed to have forsaken her, 


287 


Lvxyy^s New Trouble, 

but whom she did not know to have done so, though his con- 
duct had been worse than doubtful, seeing he had fallen into 
bad company. She would never have troubled Mr. Fuller 
about it for that, for it was not sympathy she wanted ; but 
there was a gentleman — and here she faltered more — to whom 
she was under very great obligation, and who said he loved 
her ; and she wanted much to know whether it was her duty 
to yield to his entreaties. 

Sly reader must remember that Lucy was not one of those 
clear-brained as well as large-hearted women who see the rights 
of a thing at once. Many of the best women may be terribly 
puzzled, especially when an opportunity of self-sacrifice occurs. 
They are always ready to think that the most painful way is 
the right one. This indicates a noble disposition. And the 
most painful v/ay may be the right one ; but it is not the right 
one because it is the most painful. It is the right way because 
it is the right way, whether it be painful or delightful ; and 
the notion of self-sacrifice may be rooted in spiritual pride. 
Whether it be so or not, the fact that the wrong way is the 
least self-indulgent, is the most painful, will not prevent it 
from bringing with it all the consequences that belong to it : 
wrong-doing cannot set things right, however noble the motive 
may be. Of course the personal condemnation and the indi- 
vidual degradation are infinitely less than if the easiest and 
pleasantest way is chosen only because it is the easiest and 
pleasantest. But God will not make of law a child’s toy, to 
indulge the vagaries of his best children. 

When Lucy had finished setting forth her case, which the 
trembling of her voice, and the swelling of her tears, hardly 
interrupted, Mr. Fuller said : 

Now you must allow me. Miss Burton, to ask you one or 
two plain questions.” 

‘‘ Certainly, sir. Ask me whatever you please. I will an- 
swer honestly.” 

‘‘That I have no doubt about. Do you love this man to 
whom you say you are obliged ? ” 

“Indeed I do not. I hope I am grateful to him, and I 
would do anything in return, except — ” 

“ I understand you. It seems to me, though this kind of 
thing involves many questions too delicate to be easily talked 
about, that, whatever he may desire at the time, it is doing 
any man a grievous wrong to marry him without loving him. 
Blinded by his love, he may desire it none the less even if you 
tell him that you do not love him ; but the kindest thing. 


288 


Guild Court 


even to liim, is to refuse. This is wliat seems to me the 


truth.” 


While Mr. Fuller spoke, Lucy heaved such a deep sigh of 
relief, that if any corroboration of what she represented as the 
state of her feelings had been necessary, Mr. Fuller had it. 
After a little pause, he went on : 

^^Now, one question more : Do you love the other still ?” 

I do,” said Lucy, bursting at last into a passion of tears. 
^‘But, perhaps,” she sobbed, ^‘1 ought to give him up alto- 
gether. I am afraid he has not behaved well at all.” 

To you?” 

didn’t mean that. I wasn’t thinking about myself just 
them” 

" ■ he has forsaken you ?” 



Only I haven’t seen him 


for so long.” 

There is, then, some room for hope. If you v/ere to re- 
solve upon anything now, you would be doing so without 
knowing what you were doing, because you do not know what 
he is doing. It is just possible it may be a healthy shame that 
is keeping him away from you. It may become your duty to 
give him up, but I think when it is so, it will be clearly so. 
God gives us all time : we should give each other time, too. 
I wish I could see him.” 

^^I wish, indeed, you could, sir. It seems to me that he 
has not been well brought up. His father is a dreadfully hard 
and worldly man, as my poor grandmother knows too well ; 
and his mother is very religious, but her religion seems to me 
to have done my poor Thomas more harm than his father’s 
worldliness.” 

That is quite possible. When voii do see him again, try 
to get him to come and see me. Or I will go and see"him. I 
shall not overwhelm him with a torrent of religion which ho 
cannot understand, and which would only harden him.” 

There is nothing I should wish more. But tell me one 
thing, Mr. Fuller : would it be right to marry him ? I w^ant 
to understand. Nothing looks farther off; but I want to 
know what is right.” 

I think,” returned Mr. Fuller, ‘^that every willing heaii; 
will be taught what is right by the time that action is neces- 
sary. One thing seems clear, that while you love him — ” 

‘‘1 shall always love him,” interrupted Lucy. 

""I must speak gonerall 3 ^,” said Mr. Fuller; ^Land there 
have been a few instances,” he added, with the glimmer of a 



LUCY NEVER LIFTED HER EYES. 














I • 


^ • 


• • • 




' A • ’ 


« , • j " ■ "“N * * . ' 

- ‘ tflrV*' 

I . •» 

. O 



rr* 


• ^ 






. r . 


r v. 

A • 


1 * 




/ ■ . 

jr >». 

.» a > ^ ' ' 




I 


>v •: • 


v"*/ ».■ * . 

^9fr 

y- •,.■•(• • 






: V 


; f' - ■ 'u * . '‘t 


i/ 


V- 


» * 


k 



.- A,-.' ■: 


Iv- > >-• 






• '•' 4VW: w[ w 


« «. 


• 14 


9 

■ t 

I 

a: 


?' 



t.- 


•I ‘ • 

» • 

• , % ■ 


« •. 


■ V 


».. . *. 


-'_ » . 




- f 




i • 


s ^ 




f • 


^ 'i 

• ► A» 

* ■ V Vrf. 

• -l . 


i 


\ • ' ' •« 

• . V. 


• tM 


.# • 


-.<! 

t* 


V K. 

• 

1 » * 


V?'' 


.« f I 


<• 


4 .' 


' I 





. '■ » 5 

t 


• m 


■*’ r 1 . ' 

r. » • ' '. ,. 


* . * r.s.'- 




- r 


» », 




^ •' 
- 4 >. 


A . •* 

I 

• 


‘‘Jr 


•I 


. . .% 

. >• iJ 
. f •?<S 


^ _ 

-> ;\ . ' ^■ 

• • 4 ' • 

f ♦ 


♦t 


K 

4 

t 

• • I 




V. 


. r 


'Va\ 

•/ i 

t 

1 ^ • 


a'^ 



t « 

9 

- \ r 


• /. • 


.' r 


i« « 


1 


’ t 






-s 


T ■ 


•tf** • 




• « 


^ • 


'-J - 


« 




V 


. V 






» / 


' iJ ' 


. ♦'‘‘•A 


} 

• 4 

■ I 





• \ 


/. 


-v’ t •♦. 






*• 


y. 


r • 


I- f* V * 1 

f • 


%r 


^ I 


• A 


• J ‘ - N- 


«-• 

« 


• N';> 


# . 




ri- - 




: ii: : > r 



y?.’ -• •■ ’ ;•. 


« 

* ^ 


J 

4 


s.. ■‘y 


V.' 

. y 


•■ k 




>0 

.c, 


' tin 




^ I’ 


. » 


I • 
» 


m « 


A.- 


t 

t J 


* y 


* .' • 
»• *'4 , 




'I 


/ * 




•r 4 > 




. / 
4* ’. 




« « 


.• • 


e ' ' % 


> . 

4 • ‘ ^ • 


• I 
# 


•'■ - ' 'l-X* “■ 


• ^ ^ * I ' .%»s 




.• 


. V 

* f 


» . Nil . ■-• 

i 4 . ^ 1 




>: 


. I f 


' V? • 


I ** % 




\' 




t • 


L.' .4 


• V \ 




k 

A* 4l*« 


I . , 


r • 


<• 


/*' ' 
-V 


f . - <• 

l*» 4 

» ^ -• 


V' 


»: • ^ I 

4 . • 




' r ' ' f « ■ A'/' ^ '• ^ - ! *i , 

.\ •. ■ ^. . ' <•( . . 4 , ’- 


’v-' 


T. 


■m » 




< . . , 


•S » "* • * 


r •* 

4 






^ ."X - ' ^ V 


J. , 

4»_ 


t \ 



* : ^ 


• 4 4 


y 

•i . 


•» ‘^' 


4 

I > 


t 


' 4 ' 


i rA 

• • V* t 

i ** 


V 


? y.* 





V 

. « V 


k 4 




) 


\ 4 " 4» 




.4 


• -• 'i 


%4 


I » 

* - * 1 

A w_ J 


-•* . 


’•-4‘:i54-*^l^ ji* tv < 


J . 


.K 





I 4 


-Ml ' !'- 

.. - ■ ' ' ;v 's- 1 • If^i; i "X .!’ W 

, . . . ti^yrtiv- / , ''i?3 

! /fV. '■-I 






X V >»*» ; 

. I . 


y^’' >:■ 

%4i^ '4 

*“ ’•"fij' 


• • • ‘ A* ' • # J" 


• «> 










* N 

»i H? 




289 


Lmy's New Trouble, 

smile through the seriousness of his countenance, of young 
maidens, and young men no less, changing their minds about 
such matters. I do not say you will. But while you love him 
it is clear to me, that you must not accept the attentions of 
any one else. I could put a very hard and dreadful name 
upon that. There is another thing equally clear to me— that 
while he is unrepentant, that is, so long as he does not change 
his ways — ^turn from evil toward good — think better of it, that 
is — you would be doing very wrong to marry him. I do not 
say when, or that ever you are bound to stop loving him ; but 
that is a very different thing from consenting to marry him. 
Any influence for good that a woman has over such a man, she 
may exercise as much before marriage as after it. Indeed, if 
the man is of a poor and selfish nature, she is almost certain, 
as far as my observation goes, to lose her influence after her 
marriage. Many a woman, I fear, has married a man with 
the hope of reforming him, and has found that she only 
afforded him opportunity for growth in wickedness. I do not 
say that no good at all comes of it, so long as she is good, but 
it is the wrong way, and evil comes of it.” 

I am sure you are right, Mr. Fuller. It would be dread- 
ful to marry a bad man — or a man who had not strength, even 
for love of a wife, to turn from bad ways. But you won’t 
think the hardest of my poor Thomas yet ? He has been led 
astray, and has too much good in him to be easily made all bad.” 

i too will hope so, for your sake as well as his own.” 

Lucy rose. 

Good-morning, Mr. Fuller. I do not know how to thank 
you. I only wanted leave to go on loving him. Thank you a 
thousand times.” 

Do not thank me as if I could give you leave to do this or 
that. I only tell you what seems to me the truth of the matter.” 

^^But is not that the best thing to give or to receive ?” 

Yes, it is,” answered Mr. Fuller, as Lucy left the vestry. 

It was with a heart wonderfully lightened that she went 
home to her grandmother. Tliis new cloud of terror had 
almost passed away ; it only lightened a little on the horizon 
when she thought of having again to hear what Mr. Sargent 
wanted to say. 

That same evening ho came. Lucy never lifted her eyes to 
his face, even when she held out her hand to him. He misin- 
terpreted her embarrassment ; and he found argument to 
strengthen his first impression ; for a moment after, summon- 
ing all her courage, and remembering very conveniently a 
19 


290 Guild Court 

message slie had had for him, Lucy said to her grand- 
mother : 

Mr. Kitely said he would like to see you, grannie, about 
the papers for our rooms. He has got some patterns.’’ 

I haye done with this world, child, and all its vanities,” 
said Mrs. Boxall, with a touch of asperity. 

^^It would only be polite, though, grannie, as he is taking so 
much trouble about it, to go and see them. He is so kind ! ” 

'W'e’re going to pay him for his kindness,” said the old 
dame, soured out of her better judgment, and jealous of Mr. 
Sargent supposing that they were accepting charity. 

^^No, gi*annie. That nobody ever could do. Hindness is 
just what can’t be paid for, do what you will.” 

‘‘I see you want to get rid of me,” she said, rising ; so I 
suppose I had better go. Things are changed. Old people 
must learn to do as they’re bid. You’ll be teaching me my 
catechism next, I suppose.” 

Mrs. Boxall walked out of the room with as stiff a back as 
she had ever assumed in the days of her prosperity. The mo- 
ment the door closed, Mr. Sargent approached Lucy, who had 
remained standing, and would have taken her hand, but she 
drew it away, and took the lead. 

I am very sorry if I have led you into any mistake, Mr. 
Sargent. I was so distressed at what you said the other even- 
ing, that I made this opportunity for the sake of removing at 
once any misapprehension. I wish to remind you that I con- 
sidered the subject you resumed then as quite settled.” 

But excuse me. Miss Burton. I too considered it settled ; 
but circumstances having altered so entirely — ” 

Could you suppose for a moment, that because I had lost 
the phantom of a fortune which I never possessed, I would 
accept the man — whose kindness I was always grateful for, but 
whose love I had refused before because I could not give him 
any in return ? ” 

No. I did not suppose so. You gave me a reason for re- 
fusing my attentions then, which I have the best ground for 
believing no longer exists.” 

What was the reason I gave you then ? ” 

^'That you loved another.” 

‘‘And what ground have I given you for supposing that 
such has ceased to be the case ? ’’ 

“You have not given me any. He has.” 

Lucy started. The blood rushed to her forehead, and then 
back to her heart. 


Lucy's Neio Trouble, 291 

Where is he ?’’ she cried, clasping her hands. For God’s 
sake, tell me.” 

‘‘That at least is answer enough to my presumptuous hope,” 
returned Mr. Sargent, with some bitterness. 

“ Mr. Sargent,” said Lucy, who, though trembling greatly, 
had now recovered her self-command, “ I beg your pardon for 
any pain I may have occasioned you. But, by surprising the 
truth, you have saved me the repetition of what I told you be- 
fore. Tell me what you know of Mr. Worboise.” 

^ But Mr. Sargent’s feelings — those especially occupied with 
himself —got the better of him now, bitterly as he regretted it 
afterward. He felt it a wrong that such a woman should pass 
him by for the sake of such a man ; and he answered in the 
heat of injury : 

“ All I care to know about him is, that for the sake of his 
game among a low set of gamblers, he staked and lost a dia- 
mond ring— a rose-diamond, which one of his companions 
seemed to know as the gift of a lady. That is the man for 
whom Lucy Burton is proud to express her devotion ! ” 

Lucy had grown very pale ; but she would hold out till Mr. 
Sargent was gone. She had an answer on her lips ; but if she 
spoke he would stay. Still she would say one word for Thomas. 

“Your evidence is hardly of the most trustworthy kind, 
Mr. Sargent. Good-evening.” 

“It is of his kind, anyhow, whatever that may be,” he re- 
torted, and left the room. Before he reached the bottom of 
the stairs, he despised himself most heartily, and rushed up 
again to attempt an apology. Opening tlie room door, he saw 
Lucy lying on the floor. He thought she had fainted. But 
the same moment, Mrs. Boxall, who had only gone up stairs, 
came down behind him, and he thought it best to leave and 
write a letter. But Lucy had not fainted. She had only 
thrown herself on the floor in that agony which would gladly 
creep into the grave to forget itself. In all grief unminglcd 
with anger there is the impulse to lie down. Lucy had not 
heard Mr. Sargent return or her grandmother reenter, for 
she had been pressing her ears with her hands, as if the last 
sounds that had entered had wounded them grievously. 

“ Well, I’m sure ! what next ?” remarked Mrs. Boxall. “I 
dare say fashions have come to that at last ! ” 

What she meant was not very clear ; but the moment she 
spoke, Lucy started from the floor and left the room. She 
had not been long in her chamber, however, before, with the 
ingenuity of a lover, she had contrived to draw a little weak 


292 


Guild Court, 


comfort eyen out of what Mr. Sargent had told her. She be- 
lieved that he had done worse than part with her ring ; hut 
when the thought struck her that it must have been for the 
sake of redeeming that ring that he had robbed his employer, 
which was indeed the case, somehow or other, strange as it 
may seem, the offenses appeared mutually to mitigate each 
other. And when she thought the whole matter over in the 
relief of knowing that she was free of Mr. Sargent, she quite 
believed that she had discovered fresh grounds for taking 
courage. 


CHAPTER XLIL 

MRS. BOXALL FINDS A COMPANION IN MISFORTUNE. 

At last the day arrived that Lucy and her grandmother had 
fixed for removing into the bookseller’s house. The furniture 
was all Mrs. Boxall’s own, though, if Mr. Worboise had 
thought proper to dispute the fact, there was nobody left who 
could have borne witness against it. Mr. Kitely shut shop 
a little earlier ; Mr. Spelt descended from his perch ; and Mr. 
Dolman crept out of his hole — all to bear a hand in the moving 
of it. It was dusk when they began, but the darkness did not 
hinder their diligence, and, in the course of a couple of hours, 
all the heavier articles were in their new places. When every- 
thing was got into something like order, it did not appear 
that, save for the diminution of space, they had had such a 
terrible downcome. Lucy was heartily satisfied with their 
quarters, and the feeling that she had now to protect and work 
for her grandmother gave a little cheerfulness to her beha’\dor, 
notwithstanding the weight on her heart. Mattie was import- 
ant, with an importance which not even the delight of having 
Miss Burton to live with them could assuage ; for she had to 
preside at a little supper which Mr. Kitely had procured, in 
honor of the occasion, from the cook-shop which supplied the 
feasts of Spelt and Poppie. But when things were partially 
arranged for the night, Mrs. Boxall, who was in a very de- 
spondent condition, declared her intention of going to bed. 
Lucy would gladly have done the same, but she could not 
think of doing dislionor to the hospitality of their kind friend. 

Well, I am sorry the old lady can’t be prevailed upon,” 


293 


A Companion in Misfortune, 

said Mr. Kitely. ^^Them sassages I know to be genuine — 
none of your cats or cats’ meat either. I know the very tree 
they grew upon— eh, princess ? And now we shan’t be able 
to eat ’em up.” 

Why don’t you ask Mr. Spelt to come in and help us ?” 
said Mattie. 

Bless you ! he’s gone to fetch his kid ; and before they’ll 
come home they’ll have bought their supper. They always do. 
I know their ways. But I do believe that’s them gone up the 
court this minute. I’ll run and see.” 

Mr. Kitely hurried out, and returned with Mr. Spelt, Pop- 
pie, and the steam-engine, which was set down in the middle 
of the room. 

^ Ain’t I been fort’nate?” said the bookseller. ‘^Poppie 
ain’t sold all her potatoes. They was a-going to eat ’em up 
by the way of savin’. So we’ve agreed to club, and go share 
and share. Ain’t that it, Poppie ? ” 

Poppie gTinned and gave no other answer. But her father 
took up the word. 

It’s very kind of you to put it so, Mr. Kitely. But it 
seems to mo we’re hardly fit company for a lady like Miss 
Burton.” 

Surely, Mr. Spelt, we haven’t been neighbors so long 
without being fit to have our supper together ? ” said Lucy. 

That’s very neighborly of you, miss. Let me assist you to 
a potato,” said Spelt, going toward the steamer. ‘‘ It’s my 
belief there ain’t no better taters in London, though I says it 
as buys ’em,” he added, throwing back the lid. 

But we ain’t going to begin on the taters. Spelt. You 
come and sit down here, and we’ll have the taters put on a 
plate. That’s the right way, ain’t it, princess ? ” 

Well, I should say so, Mr. Kitely,” answered Mattie, who 
had hitherto been too full of her own importance even to talk. 
But Mr. Spelt interfered. 

Them taters,” said he, with decision, ought to be eaten 
fresh out of the steamer. If you turn ’em out on to a plate, I 
don’t answer for the consequences. We’ll put ’em nearer the 
table, and I’ll sit by ’em, with your leave. Miss Burton, and 
help everybody as wants one.” 

It was remarkable with how much more decision than had 
belonged to him formerly, Mr. Spelt now spoke. Mr. Kitely, 
after a half hour’s meditation, next day, as to whether the 
cause of it was Poppie or the potatoes, came to the wise con- 
clusion that between them they had made a man of him. 


294 


Guild Court 


By this time they were all seated round the table. 

‘‘Mr. Spelt, you he parson, and say grace,” said Kitely, in 
his usual peremptory tone. 

“Why should you ask me, Mr. Kitely?” said the tailor, 
humbly. 

“ Because you know more about that sort o’ thing than I 
do — and you know it.” 

Mr. Spelt said grace so devoutly that nobody could hear him. 

“ Why do you say grace as if you was ashamed of it. Spelt ? 
If I was to say grace, now, I would let you hear me.” 

“ I didn’t know you cared about such things,” returned 
Spelt, evasively. 

“ Well,” said Mr. Kitely, “ no more I do — or did, rather ; 
for I’m afraid that Mr. Fuller will get me into bad habits be- 
fore he has done with me. He’s a good man, Mr. Fuller, and 
that’s more than I’d say for every one of the cloth. They’re 
nothing but cloth — meaning no offense, Mr. Spelt, to a honest 
trade.” 

“ Perhaps there are more good ones among ’em than you 
think, Mr. Kitely,” said Lucy. 

“There ud need to be, miss. But I declare that man has 
almost made me hold my tongue against the whole sect of 
them. It seems a shame, with him in St. Amos’s, to say a 
word against Mr. Potter in St. Jacob’s. I never thought I 
should take to the church in my old age.” 

“ Old age, Mr. Kitely ! ” Mattie broke in. “ If you talk in 
that way, think what you make of me ! ” 

A general laugh greeted this remark. But Mattie was se- 
rious, and did not even smile. 

Poppie never opened her lips, except to smile. But she be- 
haved with perfect propriety. Mr. Spelt had civilized her so 
far, and that without much trouble. He never told any one, 
however, that it was with anxiety that he set out every night 
at half-past nine to bring her home ; for more than once he 
had found her potato-steamer standing alone on the pave- 
ment, while she was off somewhere, looking at something, or. 
following a crowd. He had stood nearly half an hour before 
she came back upon one of those occasions. All she said 
when she returned was, “I thought I should find vou here, 
daddy.” 

But I must not linger with the company assembled in the 
bookseller’s back-parlor ; for their conversation will not help 
my reader on with my story. 

A very little man, with very short, bandy legs, was trudging 


295 


A Companion in Misfortune, 

along a wide and rather crowded thoronglifare, with a pair of 
workman’s boots in his hand. It was Mr. Spelt’s sub, Mr. 
Dolman, the cobbler. 

Well, Dolly, how do ?” said a man in a long velyeteen 
coat, with a short pipe in his month and a greasy cloth cap on 
his head. You’re late to-night, ain’t you, Dolly ?” 

Them lawyers ; them lawyers, Jim ! ” returned Dolman, 
enigmatically. 

“ What the blazes have you got to do with lawyers ? ” ex- 
claimed Jim Selter, staring at the cobbler, who for the sake of 
balance had now got one boot in each hand, and stood weigh- 
ing the one against the other. 

‘‘Not much for my own part,” returned Dolman, who was 
feeling very important from having assisted at his neighbors’ 
flitting, “ But there’s good people in our court could tell you 
another story.” 

I have said that Mrs. Boxall did anything but hold her 
tongue about her affairs, and Dolman had heard Mr. Wor- 
hoise’s behavior so thoroughly canvassed between Mr. Kitely 
and Mr. Spelt, that he was familiar with the main points of 
the case. 

“ Come and have a drop of beer, ” said Jim, “ and tell us 
all about it.” 

No greater temptation could have been held out to Dolman. 
But he had a certain sense of duty that must first be satis- 
fied. 

“ No, Jim. I never touch a drop till I’ve taken my work 
home.” 

“ Where’s that ? ” asked Jim. 

“ Down by the Minories,” answered the cobbler. 

“ Come along, then. I’ll help you carry it.” 

“ ’Taint heavy. I’ll carry it myself,’^ answered Dolman, 
who, having once been robbed on a similar occasion, seemed, 
in regard to boots, to have lost his faith in humanity. 

“ I can’t think, Dolly, why you roost so far from your work. 
Now it’s different with me. My work’s here and there and 
everywhere ; but yours is alius in the same place.” 

“It gives me a walk, Jim. Besides it’s respectable. It’s 
having two places of one’s own. My landlady, Mrs. Dobbs, 
knows that my shop’s in a fashionable part, and she’s rather 
proud of me for a lodger in consekence. And my landlord, 
that’s Mr. Spelt, a tailor, and well-to-do — how’s he to know 
that I ain’t got a house in the suburbs ? ” answered Dolman, 
laughing. 


296 


Guild Court 


The moment he had got his money, and deliyered the hoots — 
for that was the order of business between Dolman and his 
customers — they betook themselves to a public-house in the 
neighborhood, where Dolman conveyed to Jim, with very tol- 
erable correctness, the whole story of Mrs. Boxall’s misfortunes. 
Before he reached the end of it, however, Jim, who had already 
‘‘put a name upon something’^ with two of his acquaint- 
ances that night, got rather misty, and took his leave of Dol- 
man with the idea that Lucy and her grandmother had been 
turned out, furniture and all, into the street, without a place 
to go to. 

Much as she had dreaded leaving her own house, as she had 
always considered it, Mrs. Boxall had a better night in her new 
abode than she had had for months, and rose in the morning 
with a surprising sense of freshness. Wonderful things ccme 
to us in sleep — none perhaps more wonderful than this reviv- 
ing of the colors of the faded soul from being laid for a few 
hours in the dark — in God^s ebony box, as George Herbert calls 
the night. It is as if the wakeful angels had been busy all the 
night preening the draggled and ruffled wings of their sleeping 
brothers and sisters. Finding that Lucy was not yet dressed, 
she went down alone to the back parlor, and, having nothing 
else to do, began to look at the birds, of which, I have already 
informed my reader, Mr. Kitely kept a great many, feeding 
and cleaning them himself, and teaching the more gifted, 
starlings and parrots, and such like birds of genius, to speak. 
If he did anything in the way of selling as well as buying them, 
it was quite in a private way — as a gentleman may do with his 
horses. 

“ Good-moming, sir,” screamed a huge gray parrot the mo- 
ment she entered, regardless of the sex of his visitor. It was 
one the bookseller had bought of a sailor somewhere about the 
docks, a day or two before, and its fame had not yet spread 
through the neighborhood, consequently Mrs. Boxall was con- 
siderably startled by the salutation. “Have you spliced the 
main-brace this morning, sir?” continued the parrot, and, 
without waiting for a reply, like the great ladies wLo inquire 
after an inferior’s family and then look out of the window, 
burst into the song, “There’s a sweet little cherub,” and, 
stopping as suddenly at the ’word, followed it with the inquiry, 
“How’s your mother?” upon wfflich point Mrs. Boxall may, 
without any irreverence, be presumed to have been a little in 
the dark. ^ The next moment the unprincipled animal poured 
forth his innocent soul in a torrent of imprecations which, 


297 


A Companion in Misfortune, 

growing as furious as fast, readied the ears of Mr. Kitely. He 
entered in a moment and silenced the animal with prompt 
rebuke, and the descent of an artificial night in the shape of a 
green cloth over his cage — the vengeance of the lower Jove. 
The creature exploded worse than ever for a while, and then 
subsided. Meantime the bookseller turned to Mrs. Boxall to 
apologize. 

I haven’t had him long, ma’am — only a day or two. He’s 
been ill brought up, as you see, poor bird ! I shall have a 
world of trouble to cure him of his bad language. If I can’t 
cure him I’ll wring his neck.” 

The poor creature doesn’t know better,” said Mrs. Boxall. 

Wouldn’t it be rather hard to kill him for it ?” 

Well, but what am I to do ? I can’t have such words 
running out and in of my princess’s ears all day.” 

But you could sell him, or give him away, you know, Mr. 
Kitely.” 

A pretty present he would be, the rascal ! And for selling 
him, it would be wickedness to put the money in my pocket. 
There was a time, ma’am, when I would have taught him such 
words myself, and thought no harm of it ; but now, if I were 
to sell that bird, ma’am — ^how should I look Mr. Fuller in the 
face next Sunday ? Ko ; if I can’t cure him, I must twist his 
neck. We’ll eat him, ma’am ; I dare say he’s nice.” 

He added, in a whisper : ‘‘I wanted him to hear me. There’s 
no telling how much them creatures understand.” 

But before Mr. Kitely had done talking, Mrs. Boxall’s at- 
tention was entirely taken up with another bird, of the paro- 
quet species. It was the most awfully grotesque, the most 
pitiably comic animal in creation. It had a green head, with 
a band of red round the back of it ; while white feathers came 
down on each side of its huge beak, like the gray whiskers of a 
retired military man. This head looked enormous for the rest 
of the body, for from the nape of the neck to the tail, except 
a few long feathers on the shoulders of its wings, blue like 
those of a jay, there was not another feather on its body : it 
was as bare as if it had been plucked for roasting. A more 
desolate, poverty-stricken, wretched object, can hardly be con- 
ceived. The immense importance of his head and beak and 
gi’ay whiskers, with the abject nakedness — more than naked- 
ness, pluckedness — of his body was quite beyond laughing at. 
It was far fitter to make one cry. But the creature was so 
absolutely, perfectly self-satisfied, without a notion of shame, 
or even discomfort, that it appeared impossible he could evei 


298 


Guild Court 


have seen himself behind. He must surely have fancied him- 
self as glorious as in his palmiest days. And his body vas so 
thin, and his skin so old and wrinkled — I wish I could sofc him 
in the margin for my younger readers to see him. He hopped 
from place to place, and turned himself round before the spec- 
tators with such an absence of discomposure, that one could 
not help admiring his utter sang-froid, almost envying his 
perfeet self-possession. Observing that his guest was absorbed 
in the contemplation of the phenomenon, Mr. Kitely said : 

You’re a-wondering at poor Widdles. Widdles was an old 
friend of mine I named the bird after before he lost his great- 
coat all but the collar. Widdles ! Widdles ! ” 

The bird came close up to the end of his perch, and, setting 
his head on one side, looked at his master with one round yel- 
low ej^e. 

‘‘ He’s the strangest bird I ever saw,” said Mrs. Boxall. ^^If 
you talked of wringing his neck, now, I shouldn’t wonder, 
Knowing you for a kind-hearted man, Mr. Kitely.” 

Wring Widdles’ neck !” exclaimed the bookseller. '^His 
is the last neek 1 would think of wringing. See how bravely 
he bears misfortune. Kobody could well lose more than Wid- 
dles, and nobody could well take it lighter. He’s a sermon, 
is that bird. His whole worldly wealth consists in his wig. 
They was a fine pair once, only he was always henpecked. His 
mate used to peck him because he wasn’t able to peck her, for 
he was the smaller of the two. They always reminded me of 
Spelt and his wife. But when they were took ill, both of 
them, she gave in, and lie wouldn’t. Death took his feathers, 
and left him jolly without them. Bless him, old Widdles.” 

^‘Well, it’s a eurious taste of yours, I must say, Mr. Kitely. 
But some people, no more than some birds, ain’t to be account- 
ed for.” 

Mr. Kitely chose to consider this a good sally of wit, and 
laughed loud and long. Mrs. Boxall laughed a little too, and 
was pleased with herself. And from that moment she began 
to take to the bird. 

Try him with a bit of sugar,” said Mr. Kitely, going to 
the carved cabinet to get a piece, which he then handed to 
Mrs. Boxall. 

The bird was friendly and accepted it. Mrs. Boxall was 
pleased with him now as well as with herself, and before long 
a firm friendship was established between the two, which went 
so far that Widdles would, when she put her hand into his 
cage, perch upon her bony old finger, and allow himself to be 


299 


A Companion in Misfortune, 

\ifted out There was no fear of his even attempting to fly 
Uway, for he was perfectly aware of his utter incapacity in that 
direction of bird-like use and custom. Before many days had 
passed she had become so much attached to the bird that his 
company did not a little to shield her from the inroads of re- 
current regret, mortification, and resentment. 

One evening when she came home from her now rather 
numerous engagements, Lucy found her grandmother seated at 
the table, with the bird in her hand, rubbing him all over very 
gently for fear of hurting him, with something she took with 
her finger from a little pot on the table. 

‘‘What are you doing with Widdle^, grannie ?” she said. 

“ Trying a little bear’s grease, child. Why shouldn’t I ? ” 
she added, angrily, when Lucy laughed. 

“No reason in the world why you shouldn’t, grannie. You 
mustn’t mind my laughing.” 

“ I don’t see why anybody should laugh at misfortune,” re- 
turned Mrs. Boxall, severely. “ How would you like to be in 
the condition of this bird yourself ? ” — without a feather, she 
was going to say, but just pulled up in time. She could not 
help laughing herself now, but she went on, nevertheless, with 
her work of charity. “Who knows,” she said, “but they 
may grow again ? ” 

“ Grow again ! ” shrieked the gray parrot, in the tone of a 
violin in unskillful hands. 

“Yes, grow again, you witch ! ” said Mrs. Boxall. “I don’t 
see why the devil shouldn’t be in you as well as in your betters. 
Why shouldn’t they grow again ? ” 

“ Grow again ! ” reiterated the gray parrot. “ Grow again ! 
Widdles ! Widdles ! Widdles ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

“It shall grow again,” retorted the old lady. “If bear’s 
grease won’t do. I’ll spend my last penny on a bottle of Macas- 
sar ; and if it doesn’t grow then I’ll pluck your back and stick 
them into his.” 

Mrs. Boxall had got into a habit of talking thus with the 
bird, which the bookseller had already nearly cured of his 
wicked words by instant punishment following each offense. 

“Stick them into his ! ” cried the bird like an echo, and re- 
fused to speak again. 

Sometimes, however, he would say a naughty word evidently 
for the sake of testing his master, or as if he wondered what 
punishment he would have this time — for the punishments 
were various. On such occasions he would shriek out the 
word, “Duck his head,” and dart to the opposite side of the 


300 


Ouild Court 


cage, keeping one eye full on his master, with such an expres- 
sion that his profile looked like a whole face with a Oycloi)ean 
one eye in it. 

Whether Mrs. Boxall was at last successful in her benevolent 
exertions I am unable to say, for her experiments were still 
going on when the period arrived with which my story 
must close. She often asserted that she saw them begin- 
ning to sprout ; and to see her with spectacles on nose, exam- 
ining the poor withered bluish back of Widdles, was ludicrous 
or touching, according to the humor of the beholder. Wid- 
dles seemed to like the pains she took with him, however ; 
and there is no doubt of one thing, that she was rewarded for 
her trouble tenfold in being thus withdrawn from the contem- 
plation of her own wrongs and misfortunes. Widdles thus 
gave her many a peaceful hour she would not in all prob- 
ability have otherwise enjoyed. Nor were her attentions con- 
fined to him ; through him, she was introduced to the whole 
reginaent of birds, which she soon began assisting Mr. Kitely 
to wait upon. Mattie had never taken to them. While gran- 
nie, as she, too, called her, was busy with them, Mattie would 
sit beside at her needlework, scarcely looking up even when she 
addressed an occasional remark to grannie. It was a curious 
household, and fell into many singular groups. 

But here I must leave Mrs. Boxall with her bird-compan- 
ions, which, save for the comfort they afforded her in taking 
her mind off herself, have no active part in the story. Through 
Mrs. Morgenstern’s influence and exertions, Lucy soon had as 
much to do in the way of teaching as she could compass, and 
her grandmother knew no difference in her way of living from 
what she had been accustomed to. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

WHAT THOMAS WAS ABOUT. 

Whek Thomas left Rotherhithe with Jim Salter, he had no 
idea in his head but to get away somewhere. Like the ostrich, 
he wanted some sand to stick his head into. But wherever he 
went there were people, even policemen, about, and not one of 
the places they went through looked more likely to afford him 


What TkomOjS was About 


301 


shelter than another. Had he given Jim any clearer informa- 
tion concerning the necessity he was in of keeping dark, per- 
haps he would have done differently with him. As it was, he 
contented himself with piloting him about the lower docks and 
all that maritime part of London. They walked about the 
whole day till Thomas was quite weary. Nor did refuge seem 
nearer than before. All this time the police might be on his 
track, coming nearer and nearer like the blood-hounds that 
they were. They had some dinner at an eating-house, where 
Thomas’s fastidiousness made yet a farther acquaintance with 
dirt and disorder, and he felt that he had fallen from his own 
sphere into a lower order of things, and could never more 
climb into the heaven from whence he had fallen. But the 
fear of yet a lower fall into a prison and the criminal’s dock 
kept him from dwelling yet upon what he had lost. At night 
Jim led him into Eatcliff Highway, the Paradise of sailors at 
sea — the hell of sailors on shore. Thomas shrunk from the 
light that filled the street from end to end, blazing from innu- 
merable public-houses, through the open doors of which he 
looked across into back parlors, where sailors and women sat 
drinking and gambling, or down long passages to great rooms 
with cuitained doorways, whence came the sounds of music 
and dancing, and through which passed and re-passed sea- 
faring figures and gaily bedizened vulgar girls, many of whom, 
had the weather been warmer, would have been hanging about 
the street-doors, laughing and chaffing the passers-by, or getting 
up a dance on the pavement to the sound of the music within. 
It was a whole streetful of low revelry. Poor Jack ! Such is 
his coveted reward on shore for braving Death, and defying 
him to his face. He escapes from the embrace of the bony 
phantom to hasten to the arms of his far more fearful com- 
panion — the nightmare Life-in-Death — '^who thicks man’s 
blood with cold.” Well may that pair casting their dice on 
the skeleton ship symbolize the fate of the sailor, for to the 
one or the other he falls a victim. 

Opposite an open door Jim stopped to speak to an acquaint- 
ance. The door opened directly upon a room ascending a few 
steps from the street. Eound a table sat several men — sailors, 
of course — apparently masters of coasting vessels. A lithe 
lascar was standing with one hand on the table, leaning over 
it, and talking swiftly, with snaky gestures of the other hand. 
He was in a rage. The others burst out laughing. Thomas 
saw something glitter in the hand of the Hindoo. One of the 
sailors gave a cry, and started up, but staggered and fell. 


302 


Guild Court 


Before he fell the lascar was at the door, down the steps with 
a hound, and out into the street. Two men were after him 
at full speed, but they had no chance with the light-built 
Indian. 

‘^The yillain has murdered a man, Jim,’^ said Thomas — 

in there — look ! ” 

Oh, I dare say he ain’t much the worse,” returned Jim. 

They’re always a outing with their knives here.” 

For all his indifference, however, Jim started after the Hin- 
doo, but he was out of sight in another moment. 

Jim returned. 

He’s crowding all sail for Tiger Bay, ” said he. I shouldn’t 
care to follow him there. Here’s a Peeler.” 

Come along, Jim,” said Thomas. Don’t stand here all 
the night.” 

Why you ain’t afraid o’ the place, are you, guv’nor ?” 

Thomas tried to laugh, but he did not enjoy the allusion — • 
in the presence of a third person especially. 

^^Well, good-night,” said Jim to his acquaintance. 

^^By the way,” he resumed, ‘^do you know the figure of 
Potts’s ken ? ” 

‘‘ What Potts ? I don’t know any Potts.” 

Yes you do. Down somewhere about Lime ’us, you know. 
We saw him that night — ” 

Here Jim whispered his companion, who answered aloud : 

Oh, yes, I know. Let me see. It’s the Marmaid, I think. 
You ain’t a-going there, are you ? ” 

Don’t know. Mayhap. I’m only taking this gen’leman 
a sight-seeing. He’s from the country.” 

Good-night, then.” And so they parted. 

It was a sudden idea of Jim’s to turn in the direction of the 
man whose child Thomas had saved. But Thomas did not 
know where he was taking him. 

Where will you sleep to-night, guv’nor?” asked Jim, as 
they walked along. 

^‘I don’t know,” answered Thomas. ‘^1 must leave vou to 
find me a place. But I say, Jim, can you think of anything I 
could turn to ? for my money won’t last me long.” 

^^Turn to !” echoed Jim. ' ^‘Why a man had need be able 
to turn to everything by turns to" make a livin’ nowadays. 
You ain’t been used to hard work, by your hands. Do you 
know yer Bible well ? ” 

Pretty well,” answered Thomas ; ‘^but I don’t know what 
that can have to do with making a living,” 


303 


What Thomas was About 

Oh, don’t you, guy’nor ? ” Perhaps you don’t know what 
yer Bible means. It means pips and picturs.” 

‘‘You mean the cards. No, no. I’ve had enough of that. 
I don’t mean ever to touch them again.” 

“Huml Bitten,” said Jim to himself, hut so that Thomas 
heard him. 

“ Not very badly, Jim. In the pocket-book I told you I lost 
I had a hundred pounds, won at cards the night before last.” 

“My eye!” exclaimed Jim. “What a devil of a pity! 
But why don’t you try your luck again ? ” he asked, after a 
few moments of melancholy devoted to the memory of the 
money. 

“Look here, Jim. I don’t know where to go to sleep. I 
have a comfortable room that I dare not go near ; a father — a 
rich man, I believe — who would turn me out ; and, in short, 
I’ve ruined myself forever with card-playing. The sight of a 
pack would turn me sick, I do believe.” 

“ Sorry for you, guv’nor. I know a fellow, though, that 
makes a good thing of the thimble.” 

“I’ve no turn for tailoring, I’m afraid.” 

“ Beggin’ your pardon, guv’nor, but you are a muif ! You 
never thought I meant a gen’leman like you to take to a beastly 
trade like that. I meant the thimble and peas, you know, at 
fairs, and such like. It’s all fair, you know. You tell ’em 
they don’t know where the pea is and they don’t. I know a 
friend o’ mine ’ll put you up to it for five or six bob. Bless 
you ! there’s room for free trade and money made.” 

Thomas could hardly be indignant with Jim for speaking 
according to his kind. But when he looked into it, it stung 
him to the heart to think that every magistrate would regard 
him as capable of taking to the profession of thimble-rigging 
after what he had been already guilty of. Yet in all his"^deal- 
ings with cards Thomas had been scrupulously honorable. He 
said no more to Jim about finding something to do. 

They had gone a good way, and Thomas’s strength was be- 
ginning to fail him quite. Several times Jim had inquired 
after the Marmaid, always in public-houses, where he paid for 
the information or none, as the case might be, by putting a 
name upon something at Thomas’s expense ; so that he began 
to be rather uplifted. 

At length he called out joyfully : 

“ Here’s a fishy one, guv’nor, at last! Come along.” 

So saying, he pushed the swing door, to which was attached 
a leather strap to keep it from swinging outward, and entered. 


304 


Guild Court 


It admitted them to a bar served by a big fat man with an 
apron whose substratum was white at the depth of several 
strata of dirt, and a nose much more remarkable for color than 
drawing, being in both more like a half-ripe mulberry than 
anything else in nature. He had little round, watery eyes, and 
a face indicative of nothing in particular, for it had left its 
original conformation years behind. As soon as they entered, 
Jim went straight up to the landlord, and stared at him for a 
few moments across the counter. You don’t appear to know 
me, guv’nor ? ” he said, for the mdny things he had drank to 
find the way had made him barhy. His vocabulary of address, 
it will be remarked, was decidedly defective. 

Well, I can’t take upon me to say as I do,” answered the 
man, putting his thumbs in the strings of his apron, and look- 
ing at Jim with a mixture of effort and suspicion on his puffy 
face. And Fll be bound to say,” remarked Jim, turning to- 
ward Thomas, ‘Hhat you don’t know this gen’leman either. 
Do ’ee now guv’nor ? On yer honor, right as a trivet ? No, 
ye don’t.” 

Can’t say I do.” 

“ Look at him, then. Ain’t he fit to remember ? Don’t he 
look respectable ? ” 

Come, none o’ your chaff ! Say what you’ve got to say. 
What do you want ? ” 

Cut it short, Jim,” said Thomas. 

How’s your young marmaid as took to the water so nat’ral 
at the Horsley down tother day, Mr. Potts ?” asked Jim, lean- 
ing on his elbows on the counter. 

J oily,” answered the landlord. Was you by ? ” 

Wasn’t I, then ! And there’s a guv’nor was nearer than I 
was. Mr. Potts, that’s the very gen’leman as went a header 
into the water and saved her, Mr. Potts. Hold up yer head, 
guv’nor.” 

^‘You’re a chaffin of me, I know,” said Potts. 

Come, come, Jim, don’t make a fool of me,” said Thomas, 
wish I had known you were bringing me here. Come 
along. I won’t stand it.’’ 

But Jim was leaning over the counter, speaking in a whis- 
per to the down -bent landlord. 

You don’t mean it ?” said the latter. 

“ Ask the mis’ess, then,” said Jim. 

You don’t mean it ! ” repeated the landlord, in a husky 
voice, and with increase of energy. Then looking to- 
ward Thomas, ‘‘What will he take?” and with the words 


What Thomas was Abmt, 


305 


turned his back upon Jim, and his face toward a shelf on 
which stood his choicest bottles between two cask-like protu- 
berances. He got down one of brandy, but Thomas, who was 
vexed at being brought there as if he wanted some acknowl- 
edgment of the good deed he had been fortunate enough to 
perform, refused to take anything. 

What will you take then ? ” said the man, whose whole 
stock of ideas seemed to turn upon taking. 

But at the moment a woman entered from behind the 
shop. 

“There, mis’ess,” said her husband, “can you tell who that 
gentleman is ?” 

She looked at him for a moment, and exclaimed : 

“ Bless my soul ! It’s the gentleman that took our Bessie 
out of the water. How do you do, sir ? ” she continued, with 
mingled pleasure and respect, as she advanced from behind 
the counter, and courtesied to Thomas. 

“Hone the worse for my ducking, thank you,” said Thomas, 
holding out his hand in the delight a word of real friendship 
always dves. 

She shook it warmly, and would hardly let it go. 

“Oh! isn’t he, then ?” muttered Jim, mysteriously, but 
loud enough for Potts to hear. 

“Won’t you come in, sir?” said the woman, turning to 
lead the way. 

“Thank you,” answered Thomas. “I have been walking 
about all da}^, and am very tired. If you would let me sit 
down awhile — and— perhaps it wouldn’t be giving you too 
much trouble to ask for a cup of tea, for my head aches 
rather.” 

“Come in, sir,” she said, in a tone of truest hospitality. 
^‘That I will, with pleasure. I’m sure.” 

Thomas followed her into a dingy back room, where she 
made him lie down on a sofa from which he would have re- 
coiled three days ago, but for which he was very grateful now. 
She then bustled about to get him some tea, and various little 
delicacies besides, in the shape of ham, and shrimps, etc., etc. It 
was pretty clear from her look, and the way she pressed her of- 
ferings of gratitude, that she had a true regard for inward com- 
forts, if not for those outward luxuries of neatness and clean- 
liness. 

The moment Thomas was out of the shop, Jim Salter began 
to be more communicative with Mr. Potts. 

“Hone the worse !” said he, reflectively. “Oh, no. That’s 
20 


306 


Guild Court 


the way your quality talk about a few bank-notes. ^Nothing 
but a hundred pounds the worst. Oh, no.” 

You don’t mean it ? ” said Mr. Potts, making his eyes as 
round as two sixpences. 

Well, to be sure,” said Salter, ^‘1 can’t take my davy on 
it ; ’cause as how I’ve only his word for it. But he don’t look 
like a cony-catcher, do he ? He’s a deal too green for that, I 
can tell you. Well, he is green ! ” repeated Jim, bursting into 
a quiet chuckle. 

I don’t mean he’s a fool, neither. There’s a vasty heap o’ 
difference betwixt a leek in yer eye and a turnip in ycr brain- 
box. Ain’t there now, guv’nor ? ” 

You don’t mean it? ” said Mr. Potts, staring more than ever. 
‘‘ What don’t I mean, Mr. Potts ? ” 

You don’t mean that that ’ere chap ? What do you mean 
about them hundred pounds ? ” 

^^Now I’ll tell ’ee, guv’nor. It’s a great pleasure to me to 
find I can tell a story so w^ell.” 

There you are — off again, no mortal man can tell to where. 
You ain’t told me no story yet.” 

Ain’t I ? How came it then, guv’nor, that I ha’ made 
you forget your usual ’ospitable manners ? If I hadn’t ha’ 
been telling you a story, you’d ha’ — I know you’d ha’ asked me 
to pufc a name upon something long ago.” 

Mr. Potts laughed, and saying, “I beg yer pardon, Mr. 
Salter, though I’m sure I don’t remember ever meetin’ of you 
afore, only that’s no consequence ; the best o’ friends must 
meet some time for the first time,” turned his face to the shelf 
as he had done before, and, after a little hesitation, seemed 
to conclude that it would be politic to take down the same 
bottle. Jim tossed off' the half of his glassful, and, setting 
the rest on the counter, began his story. Whether he wished 
to represent himself as Thomas’s confidant, or, having come 
to his conclusions to the best of his ability, believed himself 
Justified in representing them as the facts of the case, it is not 
necessary to inquire ; the account ho gave of Thomas’s posi- 
tion was this : That when Thomas went overboard after little 
Bessie, he had in the breast of his coat a pocket-book, with a 
hundred pounds of his master’s in it ; that he dared not go 
home without it ; that the police were after him ; and, in 
short, that he was in a terrible fix. Mr. Potts listened with a 
general stare, and made no reply. 

You’ll give him a bed to-night, won’t you, guv’nor ? I’ll 
come back in the morning and see what can be done.” 


What Thomas was About, 


307 


Jim finished his glass of brandy as if ifc had been only the 
last drops, and set it on the counter with a world of suggestion 
in the motion, to which Mr. Potts mechanically replied by 
filling it again, saying as he did so, in a voice a little huskier 
than usual, ‘‘All right. Jim tossed off the brandy, smacked 
his lips, said “Thank you, and good-night,” and went out of 
the beer-shop. Mr. Potts stood for five minutes motionless, 
then Avent slowly to the door of the back parlor, and called his 
wife. Leaving Thomas to finish his meal by himself, Mrs. 
Potts joined her husband and they had a talk together. He 
told her what Jim had just communicated to him, and they 
held a consultation, the first result of which was that Mrs. 
Potts proceeded to get a room — the best she could offer — 
ready for Thomas. He accepted her hospitality with gratitude, 
and was glad to go to bed. 

Meantime, leaving his wife to attend to the thirst of the 
public, Mr. Potts set out to find his brother-in-law, the cap- 
tain of a collier trading between Newcastle and London, who 
was at the moment in the neighborhood, but whoso vessel was 
taking in ballast somewhere down the river. He came upon 
him where he had expected to find him, and told him the 
whole story. 

The next morning, when Thomas, more miserable than ever, 
after rather a sleepless night, came down stairs early, he found 
his breakfast waiting for him, but not his breakfast only : a 
huge seafaring man, with short neck and square shoulders, 
dressed in a blue pilot-coat, was seated in the room. He rose 
when Thomas entered, and greeted him with a bow made up 
of kindness and patronage. Mrs. Potts came in the same 
moment. 

“This is my brother. Captain Smith, of the Raven” she 
said, “ come to thank you, sir, for what you did for his little 
pet, Bessie.” 

“ Well, I donnow,” said the captain, with a gruff breeziness 
of manner. “I came to ask the gentleman if, bein’ on the 
loose, he wouldn’t like a trip to Newcastle, and share my little 
cabin with me.” 

It was the first glimmer of gladness that had lightened 
Thomas’s horizon for what seemed to him an age. 

“Thank you, thank you !” he said ; “it is the very thing 
for me.” 

And, as he spoke, the avv^ful London wilderness vanished, 
and open sea and sky filled the world of his imaginings. 

“When do you sail ?” he asked. 


308 


Guild Court. 


^^To-niglit, I hope, with the ebb,” said the captain ; ^^hut 
you had better come with me as soon as you’ve had your 
breakfast, and we’ll go on board at once. You needn’t mind 
about your chest. You can rough it a little, I dare say. I can 
lend you a jersey that’ll do better than your ’longshore togs.” 

Thomas applied himself to his breakfast with vigor. Hope 
even made him hungry. How true it is that we live by hope ! 
Before he had swallowed his last mouthful, he started from 
his seat. 

^‘You needn’t be in such a hurry,” said the captain. 

There’s plenty of time. Stow your prog.” 

I have quite done. But I must see Mr. Potts for a minute. ” 

He went to the bar, and, finding that Jim had not yet made 
his appearance, asked the landlord to change him a sovereign, 
an'' 



Potts. 


‘^1 promised him a day’s wages.” 

‘‘Pive shillings is over enough, besides the brandy I gave 
him last night. He don’t make five shillings every day.” 

Thomas, however, to the list of whose faults stinginess 
could not be added, insisted on Jim having the half sovereign, 
for he felt that he owed him far more than that. 

In pulling out the small remains of his money, wondering if 
he could manage to buy a jersey for himself before starting, 
he brought out with it two bits of pasteboard, the sight of 
which shot a pang to his heart : they were the pawn -tickets 
for his watch and Lucy’s ring, which he had bought back 
from the holder on that same terrible night on which he had 
lost almost everything worth having. It was well he had only 
thrust them into the pocket of his trousers, instead of putting 
them into his pocket-book. They had stuck to the pocket, 
and been dried with it, had got loose during the next day, and 
now came to light, reminding him of his utter meanness, not 
to say dishonesty, in parting with the girl’s ring that he might 
follow his cursed play. The gleam of gladness which the ho23e 
of escaping from London gave him had awaked his conscience 
more fully ; and he felt the desnicableness of his conduct as 
ho had never felt it before. How could he have done it ? 
The ring, to wear which he had been proud because it was not 
his own, but Lucy’s, he had actually exposed to the contamina- 
tion of vile hands — had actually sent from her pure, lovely 
person into the pocket of a foul talker, and thence to a pawn- 
broker’s shop. He could have torn himself to pieces at the 
thought. And now that she was lost to him forever, was he 


What Thomas was About, 


309 


to rob her of her mother’s jewel as well ? He must get it 
again. But if he went after it now, even if he had the money 
to redeem it, he might run into the arms of the searching Law, 
and he and it too would be gone. But he had not the money. 
The cold dew broke out on his face, as he stood beside the 
pump-handles of the beer-shop. But Mr. Potts had been 
watching him for some time. He knew the look of those 
tickets, and dull as his brain was, with a dullness that was 
cousin to his red nose, he divined at once that Thomas’s pain- 
ful contemplation had to do with some effects of which those 
tickets were the representatives. He laid his hand on Thomas’s 
shoulder from behind. Thomas gave a great start. 

‘‘I beg your pardon for frightening of you, sir,” said Mr. 
Potts ; but I believe a long experience in them things 
makes me able to give you good advice.” 

What things ?” asked Thomas. 

Them things,” repeated Potts, putting a fat forefinger first 
on the one and then on the other pawn-ticket. ‘^’T wasn’t 
me, nor yet Bessie. ’Tis long since I was in my uncle’s. All 
I had to do there was a-getting of ’em down the spout. I 
never sent much up it ; my first wife, J oan — not Bessie, bless 
her ! Now I ain’t no witch, but I can see with ’alf a heye that 
you’ve got summat at your uncle’s you don’t like to leave 
there, when you’re a-goin’ a voyagin’ to the ends o’ the earth. 
Have you got the money as well as the tickets ? ” 

Oh dear, no ! ” answered Thomas, almost crying. 

Come now,” said Potts, kindly, “ sweep out the chimley. 
It’s no use missing the crooks and corners, and having to send 
a boy up after all. Sweep it out. Tell me all about it, and 
I’ll see what I can do — or can’t do, it may be,” 

Thomas told him that the tickets were for a watch — a gold 
watch, with a compensation balance — and a diamond ring. 
He didn’t care about the watch ; but he would give his life to 
get the ring again. 

Let me look at the tickets. How much did you get on 
’em separate ? ” 

Thomas said he did not know, but gave him the tickets to 
examine. 

Potts looked at them. You don’t care so much for the 
watch ? ” he said. 

No, I don’t,” answered Thomas ; though my mother 
did give it to me,” he added, ruefully. 

"" Why don’t you offer ’em both of the tickets for the ring,” 
then ? ” said Potts. 


310 


Guild Court. 


What ? ” said Thomas. I don’t see — ” 

You give ’em tome,” returned Potts. ^^Here, Bess ! you 
go in and have a chat with the captain — I’m going out, Bes- 
sie, for an hour. Tell the captain not to go till I come back.” 

So saying, Potts removed his white apron, put on a black 
frock coat and hat, and went out, taking the tickets with 
him. 

Mrs. Potts brought a tumbler of grog for her brother, and 
he sat sipping it. Thomas refused to join him ; for he reaped 
this good from his sensitive organization, that since the night 
on which it had helped to ruin him, he could scarcely endure 
even the smell of strong drink. It was rather more than an 
hour before Mr. Potts returned, during which time Thomas 
had been very restless and anxious. But at last his host 
walked into the back room, laid a small screw of paper before 
him, and said : 

^'There’s your ring, sir. You won’t vrant your watch this 
voyage. I’ve got it, though ; but I’m forced to keep it, in 
case I should be behind with my rent. Any time you look in, 
I shall have it, or know where it is.” 

Thomas did what he could to express his gratitude, and took 
the ring with a wonderful feeling of relief. It seemed like a 
pledge of farther deliverance. He begged Mr. Potts to do 
what he pleased with the watch ; he didn’t care if he never saw 
it again ; and hoped it would be worth more to him than what 
it had cost him to redeem them both. Then, after many kind 
farewells, he took his leave with the captain of the Maven. 
As they walked along, he could not help looking round every 
few yards ; but after his new friend had taken him to a shop 
where he bought a blue jersey and a glazed hat, and tied his 
coat up in a handkerchief — his sole bundle of luggage — he felt 
more comfortable. In a couple of hours ho was on board of 
the Raven, a collier brig of a couple of hundred tons. They 
set sail the same evening, but not till they reached the Nore 
did Thomas begin to feel safe from pursuit. 

The captain seemed a good deal occupied with his own 
thoughts, and there were few things they understood in com- 
mon, so that Thomas was left mostly to his own company ; 
which, though far from agreeable, was no doubt the very best 
for him under the circumstances. For it was his real self that 
he looked in the face — the self that told him what he was, 
showed him whence he had fallen, what he had lost, how he 
had hitherto been wasting his life, and how his carelessness 
had at length thrown him over a precipice up which he could 


What Thomas was About 


311 


not climb — ^there was no footbold upon it. But this was not 
all : lie began to see not only his faults, but the weakness of 
his character, the refusal to combat which had brought him to 
this pass. His behavior to Lucy was the bitterest thought of 
all. She looked ten times more lovely to him now that he had 
lost her. That she should desjiise him was terrible — even 
more terrible the likelihood that she would turn the rich love 
of her strong heart upon some one else. How she had en- 
treated him to do her justice I and he saw now that she had 
done so even more for his sake than for her own. He had not 
yet any true idea of what Lucy was worth. He did not know 
how she had grown since the time when, with all a girl’s inex- 
perience, she had first listened to his protestations. While he 
had been going down the hill, she had been going up. Long 
before they had been thus parted, he would not have had a 
chance of winning her affections had he had then to make the 
attempt. But he did see that she was infinitely beyond him, 
infinitely better than — to use a common phrase— he could have 
deserved if he had been as worthy as he fancied himself. I say 
a common phrase, because no man can ever deserve a woman. 
Gradually — by what gradations ho could not have told — the 
truth, working along with his self -despising, showed him 
something of all this ; and it was the first necessity of a nature 
like his to be taught to look down on himself. As long as he 
thought himself more than somebody, no good was to be ex- 
pected of him. Therefore, it was well for him that the worth- 
lessness of his character should break out and show itself in 
some plainly worthless deed, that he might no longer be able 
to hide himself from the conviction and condemnation of his 
own conscience. Hell had come at last ; and he burned in 
its fire. 

He was very weary, and went to bed in a berth in the cabin. 
But he was awaked while it was yet quite dark by the violent 
rolling and pitching of the vessel, and the running to and fro 
overhead. He got up at once, dressed in haste, and clambered 
up the companion-ladder. It was a wild scene. It had come 
on to blow hard. The brig was under reefed topsails and jib : 
but Thomas knew nothing of sea affairs. She was a good boat, 
and rode the seas well. "There T7as just light enougli for him 
to see the water by the white rents in its darkness. Fortun- 
ately, he was one of those few favored individuals in whose 
nerves the motion of a vessel finds no response — I mean he did 
not know what sea-sickness was. And that storm came to him 
a wonderful gift from the Father who had not forgotten his 


312 


Guild Court. 


erring child — so strangely did it harmonize with his troubled 
mind. New strength, even hope, invaded his weary heart from 
the hiss of the wind through the cordage as it bellied out from 
the masts ; his soul rejoiced in the heave of the wave under 
the bows and its swift rush astern ; and though he had to hold 
hard by the weather shrouds, not a shadow of fear crossed his 
mind. This may have partly come from life being to him now 
a worthless thing, save as he had some chance of — he did not 
know what ; for although he saw no 'way of recovering his lost 
honor, and therefore considered that eternal disgrace was his, 
even if God and man forgave him, there was yet a genuine ray 
of an unknovm hope borne into him, asl say, from the crests of 
those broken waves. But I think it was natural to Thomas to 
fear nothing that merely involved danger to himself. In this 
respect he possessed a fine physical courage. It was in moral 
courage — the power of looking human anger and contempt in 
the face, and holding on his own way — that he was deficient. 
I believe that this came in a great measure from a delicate, 
sensitive organization. He could look a storm in the face ; 
but a storm in a face he could not endure ; he quailed before 
it. He would sail over a smooth human sea, if he might ; 
when a wind rose there, he would be under bare poles in a 
moment. Of course this sensitiveness was not in itself an evil, 
being closely associated with his poetic tendencies, which ought 
to have been the center from which all the manlier qualities 
were influenced for culture and development ; but he had 
been spoiled in every way, not least by the utterly conflicting 
discords of nature, objects, and character in his father and 
mother. But although a man may be physically brave and 
morally a coward — a fact too well known to be insisted upon — 
a facing of physical danger will help the better courage in the 
man whose will is at all awake to cherish it ; for the highest 
moral courage is born of the will, and not of the organization. 
The storm wrought thus along with all that was best in him. 
In the fiercest of it that night, he found himself often kissing 
Lucy’s ring, which, as soon as he began to know that they 
were in some danger, and not till then, he had, though with a 
strong feeling of the sacrilege of the act, ventured to draw once 
more upon his unworthy hand. 

The wind increased as the sun rose. If he could only have 
helped the men staggering to and fro, as they did on the great 
sea in the days of old ! But he did not know one rope from 
another. Two men were at the tiller. One was called away 
on some emergency aloft. Thomas sprang to his place. 


Thomas Returns to London, 313 

I will do whatever you tell me/’ he said to the steersman ; 
“only let me set a man free.” 

Then he saw it was the captain himself. He gave a nod, 
and a squirt of tobaco-juice, as cool as if he had been steering 
with a light gale over a rippling sea. Thomas did his best, 
and in five minutes had learned to obey the word the captain 
gave him as he watched the binnacle. About an hour after 
the sun rose the wind began to moderate ; and before long 
the captain gave up the helm to the mate, sajdng to Thomas : 

“We’ll go and have some breakfast. You’ve earned your 
rations, anyhow. Your father ought to have sent you to sea. 
It would have made a man of you.” 

This was not very complimentary. But Thomas had only a 
suppressed sigh to return for answer. He did not feel himself 
worth defending any more. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THOMAS KETUKHS TO LOHDOH. 

After this Thomas made rapid progress in the favor of Cap- 
tain Smith. He had looked upon him as a landlubber before, 
with the contempt of his profession ; but when he saw that, 
clerk as he was, he was yet capable at sea, he began to respect 
him. And as Thomas wakened up more and more to an inter- 
est in what was going on around him, he did not indulge in 
giving him fool’s answers to the questions he asked, as so many 
sea-farers would have been ready to do ; and he soon found 
that Thomas’s education, though it was by no means a first- 
rate one, enabled him to ask more questions with regard to 
the laws of wind and water and the combination of forces than 
he was quite able to solve. Before they reached the end of the 
voyage, Thomas knew the rigging pretty well, and could make 
himself useful on board, ^xious to ingratiate himself with 
the captain — longing almost unconsciously for the support of 
some human approbation, the more that he had none to give 
himself — he laid himself out to please him. Having a toler- 
ably steady head, he soon found himself able to bear a hand in 
taking in a reef in the foretop-sail, and he could steer by the 
course with tolerable steadiness. The sailors were a not un- 


814 


Guild Court 


sociable set of men, and as he presumed upon nothing, they 
too gave him what help they could, not without letting off a 
few jokes at his expense, in the laughter following on which 
he did his best to join. The captain soon began to order him 
about like the rest, which was the best kindness he could have 
shown him ; and Thomas’s obedience was more than prompt — 
it was as pleasant as possible. He had on his part sorne 
information to give the captain; and their meals in the cabin 
together were often merry enough. 

‘^Ho you think you could ever make a sailor of me ?” asked 
Tom, one day. 

^‘Not a doubt of it, my boy,” the captain answered. ‘‘A 
few voyages more, and you’ll go aloft like a monkey.” 

‘MVhere do you think of making your next voyage, sir ?” 
asked Tom. 

^^ Well, I’m part owner of the brig, and can do pretty much 
as I like. I did think of Dundee.” 

should have thought they have coal enough of their own 
thereabouts.” 

A cargo of English coal never comes amiss. It’s better 
than theirs by a long way.” 

Would you take me with you ?” 

^^To be sure, if you can’t do better.” 

I can’t. I don’t want anything but my rations, you know.” 

You’ll soon be worth your wages. I can’t say you are yet, 
you know.” 

Of course not. You must have your full crew besides.” 

We’re one hand short this voyage ; and you’ve done some- 
thing to fill the gap.” 

‘^I’m very glad, I’m sure. But what would you advise me 
to do when we reach Newcastle ? It will be some time before 
you get off again.” 

‘‘Not long. If you like to take your share in getting the 
cargo on board, you can make wages by that.” 

“ With all my heart,” said Thomas, whom this announce- 
ment greatly relieved. 

“ It’s dirty work,” said the captain. 

“There’s plenty of water about,” answered Thomas. 

When they came to Newcastle, Thomas worked as hard as 
any of them, getting the ballast out and the new cargo in. 
He had never known what it was to work before ; and though 
it tired him dreadfully at first, it did him good. 

Among the men was one whom he liked more than the rest. 
He had been in the merchant service, and had sailed to India 





THOMAS WORKED AS HARD AS ANY OF THEM. 















I / ■ 


/ V 


/V* y '\ • >• 

' • ..' • -: * A r« •. ;. s > 


:',■■■ ■' ■' ■ ■■'■ ■-^X‘r, ■', ■;■ y 

; VWl,. - 

^ 

■ i,>.r-Ji y 1 ^'.’ ■•, *• ' B-i.^ • . ' 

CYtji ' ‘ -^ • '-'. ■.% I-.'' ■ ■- ' ■ 


1 * • ‘ 

- . f\ 




g!i>^ 


•;f 


w ■ 


' 4 




’ I- 


T»> 


■J 




-■* rJ^. 



^ * ' * A .1 


^ . • ' 


*.r 



. •^' w ».■ _ . ; ; iy A;v '■ •; -• • - v 

BmvM- ' \ V . :* t 





♦ ^ , 


•V 


I'.’' 


f 


•« t 




** r 

K t 


r- • 


‘* -. "f ■ 


■ •■ " tri-- -.. .'r: - ,. V 

'/ V.-'* '. *' fif- '>*'^ ‘‘I't -' 

';.rv •,.■ '■ 

( '? . ■ . ^ ‘ -V / r-V - ' ^ • 

. ^' 4 . ^ • * ••' » 


* > 


\ .V.: 



4 « 


•. 




'4*' 


/ • j 
M 


««r 


r 




' • 




r •}, « 


* ^ . A ' * ' 


♦ A 


tf 





^ -w ? ‘ ' ’.'•*> ^ ' 

% 

a. 

4 

^‘.•.^< > '* ^ 

i*’ 

>*** '* * t ' • * 

, A -, • 

'.*' : 


• c> ' 




V. 


. > 


'I .1 
V 


,♦ .9 


• / -Jrf 1# v\*“ 

^ 

t .' • . . . ' ' * > -• w ^ - ► 

■ r, • • f " •- » 4* • ■ » ■^ . • 


p: 


i ^ 


. ■• - v-:’^ ,v; 


N • 4 » 

• • 






* ^ • “ 

1 *• • • # • • 

* A 

m, ' * 


K ‘V. 

/■y 


•r. • . J- 




*?• . I.l. . w ► 'P 

.,-. .'^ '^ • * . 

r. • *' 


^ ^ ft * 

- 


\ * . . ' /• ,' •/. . #» • > ►y' V’ 

5 .' » * ' . V . -> " 


I « 


« * 


.1* • 


• ' • I 


' . ■;■ 



: ■:> 


•- • 




4 , **-•* • • ^ 

T_ . V • -. • k 


I • 


fv- 


*•. •■ 

I • 

. • • ' _ 


I •' 


• -y 

t 


■ 9.1 


K * 


I'. 


f r 


i>' 


% V 




H- 


'L 


V 


r 


• X 


??' 


4* • » 


. r 


« •» 


I w' 

* >>' 


• * itr 


-*< 






i \A 


»• 

1 

*'v, 


I 








V 


' •* V • * ; ' -■•' ^ ^ ' ’ 

, ■■-•" vx .... . V, 

’ J.V 

‘iiJ 

;:>V - , . . - ■ 


■ ■ ' *• 


u 



i 

_ f 


!.■» f 


ft / 



Thomas Returns to Londm, 


315 


and other places. He knew more than his shipmates, and had 
only taken to the coasting for a time for family reasons. With 
him Thomas chiefly consorted when their day’s work was over. 
With a gi’owing hope that by some means he might rise at last 
into another kind of company, he made the best he could of 
what he had, knowing well that it was far better than he de- 
served, and far better than what of late he had been voluntarily 
choosing. His hope, however, alternated with such fits of 
misery and despair, that if it had not been for the bodily work 
he had to do, he thought he would have lost his reason. I 
believe not a few keep hold of their senses in virtue of doing 
hard work. I knew an earl’s son, an heir, who did so. And I 
think that not a few, especially women, lose their senses just 
from having nothing to do. Many more, who are not in dan- 
ger of this, lose their health, and more still lose their purity 
and rectitude. In other words, health — physical, mental, 
moral, and spiritual — requires, for its existence and continu- 
ance, work, often hard and bodily labor. 

This man lived in Newcastle, and got Thomas a decent 
room near his own dwelling, where he slept. One evening 
they had been walking together about the place till they were 
tired. It was growing late, and as they were some distance 
from home, they went into a little public house which Kobins 
knew, to get a bit of bread and cheese and some ale. Robins 
was a very sober man, and Thomas felt no scruple in accom- 
panying him thus, although one of the best things to be said 
for Thomas was, that ever since he went on board the Raven 
he had steadily refused to touch spirits. Perhaps, as I have 
hinted before, there was less merit in this than may appear, 
for the very smell was associated with such painful memories 
of misery that it made him shudder. Sometimes a man’s 
physical nature comes in to help him to be good. For such a 
dislike may grow into a principle which will last after the dis- 
like has vanished. 

They sat down in a little room with colored prints of ships 
in full sail upon the walls, a sanded floor, in the once new 
fashion which superseded rushes, and an ostrich egg hanging 
from the ceiling. The landlady was a friend of Robins, and 
showed them this attention. On the other side of a thin par- 
tition was the ordinary room, where the ordinary run of cus- 
tomers sat and drank their grog. There were only two or three 
in there when our party entered. Presently, while Thomas 
and Robins were sitting at their supper, they heard two or 
three more come in. A hearty recognition took place, and 


316 


Guild Court, 


fresh orders were given. Thomas started and listened. He 
thought he heard the name Ningpo. 

Now, from Thomas’s having so suddenly broken off all con- 
nection with his friends, he knew nothing of what had been 
going on with regard to the property Mr. Boxall had left be- 
hind him. He thought, of course, that Mrs. Boxall would in- 
herit it. It would not be fair to suppose, however, that this 
added to his regret at having lost Lucy, for he was humbled 
enough to be past that. The man who is turned out of Para- 
dise does not grieve over the loss of its tulips, or, if he does, 
how came he ever to be within its gates ? But the very fact 
that the name of Boxall was painful to him, made the name 
of that vessel attract and startle him at once. 

‘‘ What’s the matter ?” said Eobins. 

Didn’t you hear some one in the next room mention the 
Ningpo 9 ” returned Thomas. 

Yes. She was a bark in the China trade.” 

Lost last summer on the Cape Verdes. I knew the cap- 
tain — at least, I didn’t know him, but I knew his brother and 
his family. They were all on board and all lost.” 

Ah !” said Robins, that’s the way of it, you see. People 
oughtn’t to go to sea but them as has business there. Did you 
say the crew was lost as well 9 ” 

So the papers said.” 

Robins rose, and went into the next room. He had a suspi- 
cion that he knew the voice. Almost the same moment a rough 
burst of greeting came to Thomas’s ears : and a few minutes 
after, Robins entered, bringing with him a sailor so rough, so 
hairy, so brown, that he looked as if ho must be proof against 
any attack of the elements — case-hardened against wind and 
water. 

Here’s the gentleman,” said Robins, ^^as knew your cap- 
tain, Jack.” 

^^Do, sir ?” said Jack, touching an imaginary sou’wester. 

‘^What’ll you have ?” asked Tom. 

This important point settled, they had a talk together, in 
which Jack opened ujd more freely in the presence of Robins 
than he would have felt interest enough to do with a stranger 
alone who was only a would-be sailor at best — a fact which 
could not be kept a secret from an eye used to read all sorts of 
signals. I will not attempt to give" the story in Jack’s lingo. 
But the certainty was that he had been on board the Ningpo 
when she went to pieces — that he had got ashore on a spar, 
after sitting through the night on the stern, and seeing every 


Thomas Beturns to London. 


317 


soul lost, as far as lie believed, but himself. He had no great 
power of description, and did not volunteer much ; but he re- 
turned very direct answers to all the questions Thomas put to 
him. Had Thomas only read some of the proceedings in the 
Court of Probate during the last few months, he would have 
Lnown better what sort of questions to put to him. Almost 
the only remark Jack volunteered was : 

^^Poor little July ! how she did stick to me, to be sure ! 
But she was as dead as a marlin-spike long afore the starn 
broke up.’’ 

‘‘Were you long on the island ? ” asked Tom. 

“No, not long,” answered the sailor. “I always was one 
of the lucky ones. I was picked up the same day by a brigan- 
tine bound from Portingale to the Sambusy.” 

Little did Tom think how much might be involved in what 
Jack said. They parted, and the friends went home together. 
They made a good voyage, notwithstanding some rough 
weather, to Dundee, failed in getting a return cargo, and went 
back to Newcastle in ballast. Prom Newcastle their next 
voyage was to London again. 

“ If you would rather not go to London,” said the master to 
Tom, “there’s a friend of mine here who is just ready to start 
for Aberdeen. I dare say if I were to speak to him he would 
take you on board.” 

But Tom’s heart was burning to see Lucy once more — if 
only to see her and restore her ring. If, he thought, he might 
but once humble himself to the dust before her — if he might 
but let her see that, worthless as he was, he worshiped her, his 
heart would be easier. He thought, likewise, that what with 
razoring and tanning, and the change of his clothes, he was 
not likely to be recognized. And besides, by this time the 
power must be out of Mr. Stopper’s hands ; at least Lucy must 
have come to exert her influence over the affairs of the busi- 
ness, and she would not allow them to drive things to extrem- 
ity with him, worthless as he was. He would venture, come of 
it what might. So he told the captain that he would much 
prefer to work his passage to London again. It was a long 
passage this time, and veiy rough weather. 

It w^as with strange feelings tliat Thomas saw once more the 
turrets of the Tower of London. Danger— exposure, it might 
be — lay before him, but he thought only of Lucy, not of the 
shame noAV. It was yet early morning when Captain Smith 
and he went on shore at Shadwell. The captain was going to 
see an old friend in the neighborhood, and after that to lime- 


318 


Guild Court 


house, to the Mermaid, to see his sister. Thomas wanted to be 
alone, for he had not yet succeeded in making up his mind 
what he was going to do. So he sent a grateful message by the 
captain, with the addition that he would look in upon them 
in the evening. 

Left alone, without immediate end or aim, he wandered on, 
not caring whither he went, but, notwithstanding his heavy 
thoughts, with something of the enjoyment the sailor feels in 
getting on shore even after only a fortnight at sea. It was a 
bright, cold, frosty morning, in the month of March. With- 
out knowing his course, Thomas was wandering northward ; 
and after he had gone into a coffee-shop and had some break- 
fast, he carelessly resumed his course in the same direction. 
He found that he was in the Cambridge Eoad, but whitJicr 
that led he had no idea. Nor did he know, so absorbed was 
he in his own thoughts, even after he came into a region he 
knew, till, lifting up his head, he saw the gray, time-worn 
tower, that looks so strong and is so shaky, of the old church 
of Hackney, now solitary, its ancient nave and chancel and all 
having vanished, leaving it to follow at its leisure, wearied out 
with disgust at the church which has taken its place, and is 
probably the ugliest building in Christendom, except the 
parish-church of a certain little town in the north of Aberdeen- 
shire. This sent a strange pang to his heart, for close by, that 
family used to live whose bones were now whitening among 
those rocky islands of the Atlantic. He went into the church- 
yard, sat down on a grave-stone, and thought. Now that the 
fiction of his own worth had vanished like an image in the 
clouds of yesterday, he was able to see clearly into his past life 
and conduct ; and he could not conceal from himself that his 
behavior to Mary Boxall might have had something to do with 
the loss of the whole family. He saw more and more the mis- 
chief that had come of his own weakness, lack of courage, and 
principle. If he could but have defended his own conduct 
where it was blameless, or at least allowed it to be open to the 
daylight and the anger of those whom it might not please, ho 
would thus have furnished his own steps with a strong barrier 
against sliding down that slope down vdiich he had first slid- 
den before falling headlong from the precipice at its foot. In 
self-abasement he rose from the grave-stone, and walked slowly 
past the house. Merry faces of children looked from upper 
windows, who knew nothing of those who had been there be- 
fore them. Then he went away westward toward Highbury. 
He would just pass his father’s door. There v^as no fear of his 


Thomas Returns to London, 


319 


father seeing him at this time of the day, for he would he at 
his office, and his mother could not leave her room. Ah, his 
mother ! How had he behaved to her ? A new torrent of 
self-reproach rushed over his soul as he walked along the downs 
toward Islington. Some day, if he could only do something 
first to distinguish himself in any v/ay, he would go and beg 
her forgiveness. But what chance was there of his ever doing 
any thing now ? He had cut all the ground of action from 
under his own feet. Hot yet did Thomas see that his duty was 
to confess his sin, waiting for no means of covering its enor- 
mity. He walked on. He passed the door, casting but a cur- 
sory glance across the windows. There was no one to be seen. 
He Trent down the long walk with the lime-trees on one side, 
which he knew so well, and just as he reached the gates there 
were his sister Amy and Mr. Simon coming from the other 
side. Tliey were talking and laughing merrily, and looking in 
each other’s face. He had never seen Mr. Simon look so 
pleasant before. He almost felt as if lie could speak to him. 
But no sooner did Mr. Simon see that this sailor-looking fel- 
low was regarding them, than the clerical mask was on his 
face, and Thomas turned away with involuntary dislike. 

^‘It is clear,” he said to himself, ^^that they don’t care 
much what is become of me.” He turned then, westward 
again, toward Highgate, and then went over to Hampstead, 
paused at the pines, and looked along the valley beneath ; 
then descended into it, and went across the heath till he came 
out on the road by Wildwood. This was nearly the way he 
had wandered on that stormy Christmas Day with Mary Box- 
all. He had this day, almost without conscious choice, trav- 
ersed the scenes of his former folly. Had he not been brood- 
ing repentantly over his faults, I doubt if he could have done 
so, even unconsciously. He turned into the Bull and Bush, 
and had some dinner ; then, as night was falling, started for 
London, having made up his mind at last what he would do. 
At the Bull and Bush he wrote a note to Lucy, to the follow- 
ing effect. He did not dare to call her by her name, still less 
to use any term of endearment. 

‘^1 am not worthy to speak or write your name,” he said ; 
^^but my heart is dying to see you once more. I have like- 
wise to return you your mother’s ring, which, though it has 
comforted me often iu my despair, I have no longer any right 
to retain. But I should just like to tell you that I am working 
honestly for my bread. lam a sailor now. I am quite clear 
of all my bad companions, and hope to remain so. Dare I ask 


320 


Guild Court 


you to meet me once — to-morrow night, say, or any night 
soon, for I am not safe in London ? I will tell you all when I 
see you. Send me one line by the bearer of this to say where 
you will meet me. Do not, for the sake of your love to me 
once, refuse me this. I want to beg your forgiveness, that I 
may go away less miserable than I am. Then I will go to Aus- 
tralia, or somewhere out of the country, and you will never 
hear of me more. God bless you.^^ 

He cried a good deal over this note. Then came the ques- 
tion how he was to send it. He could, no doubt, find a mes- 
senger at the Mermaid, but he was very unwilling to make any 
line of communication between that part of London and Guild 
Court, or, more properly, to connect himself, whose story was 
there known, with Lucy’s name. He would go to the neigh- 
borhood of Guild Court and there look out for a messenger, 
whom he could then watch. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

THOMAS IS CAPTURED. 

As soon as he had resolved upon this he set out. There was 
plenty of time. He would walk. Tired as he was beginning 
to be, motion was his only solace. He walked through Hamp- 
stead, and by Haverstock Hill, Tottenham Court Road, and 
Holborn to the City. By this time the moon was up. Going 
by Ludgate Hill, he saw her shining over St. Paul’s right 
through the spire of St. Martin’s, where the little circle cf 
pillars lays it open to the sky and the wind ; she seemed to 
have melted the spire in two. Then he turned olf to the left, 
now looking out for a messenger. In his mind he chose and 
rejected several, dallying with his own eagerness, and yielding 
to one doubt after another about eaeh in succession. At last 
he reached the farther end of Bagot Street. There stood Pop- 
pie with her ^^murphy-buster.” Had it been daylight, when 
her dress and growth would have had due effect upon her ap- 
pearance, probably Thomas would not have known her ; but 
seeing her face only by the street-lamp, he just recollected 
that he had seen the girl about Guild Court. He had no sus- 
picion that she would know him. But Poppie was as sharp as 
a needle ; she did know him. 


321 


Thomas is Captured, 

Do you know Guild Court, my girl ? ” he asked. 

I believe you,’’ answered Poppie. 

Would you take this letter for me, and give it to Miss 
Burton, who lives there, and wait for an answer ? K she’s not 
at home, bring it back to me. I will take care of your pota- 
toes, and give you a shilling when you come back.” 

Whether Poppie would have accepted the office if she had not 
recognized Thomas, I do not know. She might, for she had 
so often forsaken her machine and found it all right when she 
returned that I think the promise of the shilling would have 
enabled her to run the risk. As it was, she scudded. While 
she was gone he sold three or four of her potatoes. He knew 
how to deliver them ; but he didn’t know the price, and just 
took what they gave him. He stood trembling with hope. 

Suddenly he was seized by the arm from behind, and a gruff 
voice he thought he knew, said : 

^^Here he is. Come along, Mr. Worboise. You’re want- 
ed.” 

Thomas had turned in great alarm. There were four men, 
he saw, but they were not policemen. That was a comfort. 
Two of them were little men. None of them spoke but the 
one who seized him. He twisted his arm from the man’s 
grasp, and was just throwing his fist at his head, when he was 
pinioned by two arms thrown round him from behind. 

Don’t strike,” said the first man, ^‘or it’ll be the worse 
for you. I’ll call the police. Come along, and I swear noth- 
ing but good will come of it — to you as well as to other peo- 
ple. I’m not the man to get you into trouble, I can tell you. 
Don’t you know me ? — Kitely, the bookseller. Come along. 
I’ve been in a fix myself before now.” 

Thomas yielded, and they led him away. 

But there’s that child’s potatoes !” he said. The whole 
affair will be stolen. Just wait till she comes back.” 

Oh ! she’s all right,” said Kitely. There she is, butter- 
ing a ha’p’orth. Come along.” 

They led him through streets and lanes, every one of which 
Thomas knew better than his catechism a good deal. All at 
once they hustled him in at a church door. In the vestibule 
Thomas saw that there were but two with him— Mr. Kitely, 
whom he now recognized, and a little man with his hair stand- 
ing erect over his pale face, like corn on the top of a chalk- 
cliff. Him too he recognized, for Mr. Spelt had done many 
repairs for him. The other two had disappeared. Neither 
Mr. Salter nor Mr. Dolman cared to tempt Providence by 
21 


322 


Guild Court 


coming farther. It was Jim who had secured his arms, and 
saved Kitely’s head. Mr. Kitely made way for Thomas to en- 
ter first. Fearful of any commotion, he yielded still, and went 
into a pew near the door. The two men followed him. It is 
time I should account for the whole of this strange proceed- 
ing. 

Jim Salter did not fail to revisit the Mermaid on the day of 
Tom’s departure, but he was rather late, and Tom was gone. 
As to what had become of him, Mr. Potts thought it more 
prudent to profess ignorance. Ho likewise took another pro- 
cedure upon him, which, although well-meant, was not honest. 
Eegardless of Thomas’s desire that Jim should have a half- 
sovereign for the trouble of the preceding day, Mr. Potts, 
weighing the value of Jim’s time, and the obligation he was 
himself under to Tom, resolved to take Tom’s interests in his 
own hands, and therefore very solemnly handed a half-croAvn 
and a fiorin, as what Thomas had left for him, across the 
counter to Jim. Jim took the amount in severe dudgeon. 
The odd sixpence was especially obnoxious. It was grievous 
to his soul. 

‘^Four and sixpence! Four bob and one tanner,” said 
Jim, in a tone of injury, in which there certainly was no pre- 
tense — after a-riskin’ of my life, not to mention a-wastin’ of 
my precious time for the ungrateful young snob. Four and 
sixpence ! ” 

Mr. Potts told him with equal solemnity, a righteous indig- 
nation looking over the top of his red nose, to hold his jaw, or 
go out of his tavern. Whereupon Jim gave a final snufi, and 
was silent, for where there was so much liquor on the premises 
it was prudent not to anger tlie Mermaid’s master. There- 
upon the said master, probably to ease his own conscience Jim- 
war d, handed him a glass of old Tom, which Jim, not with- 
out suspicion of false pla}^ emptied and deposited. From that 
day, although he continued to call occasionally at the Mermaid, 
he lost all interest in his late client, never referred to him, and 
always talked of Bessy Potts as if he himself had taken her 
out of the water. 

The acquaintance between Dolman and him began about 
this time to grow a little more intimate; and after the meeting 
which I have described above, they met pretty frequently, 
when Mr. Dolman communicated to him such little facts as 
transpired about "^hem lawyers,” namely, Mr. Worboisc’s 
proceedings. Among the rest was the suspicious disappear- 
ance of the son, whom Mr. Dolman knew, not to speak to. 


323 


Thomas is Captured, 

but by sight, as well as his own lap-stone. Mr. Salter, already 
suspicious of his man, requested a description of the missing 
youth, and concluded that it was the same in whom he had 
been so grievously disappointed, for the odd sixpence repre- 
sented any conceivable amount of meanness, not to say wicked- 
ness. This increased intimacy with Jim did Dolman no good, 
and although he would not yet forsake his work during work- 
hours, he would occasionally permit Jim to fetch a jug of 
beer from a neighboring tavern, and consume it with him in 
his shop. On these occasions they had to use great circumspec- 
tion with regard to Dolly’s landlord, who sat over his head. 
But in the winter nights, Mr. Spelt would put up the outside 
shutter over his window to keep the cold out, only occasionally 
opening his door to let a little air in. This made it possible to 
get the beer introduced below without discovery,^ when Dolman, 
snail-like, closed the mouth of his shell also, in which there 
was barely room for two, and stitched away while Jim did the 
chief part of the drinking and talking — in an under-tone— for 
him — not so low, however, but that Spelt could hear not a 
little that set him thinking. It was pretty clear that young 
Worboisc was afraid to show himself, and this and other points 
he communicated to his friend Kitely. This same evening 
they were together thus when they heard a hurried step come 
up and stop before the window, and the voice of Mr. Kitely, 
well known to Dolman, call to the tailor overhead. 

Spelt, I say. Spelt ! ” 

Mr. Spelt looked out at his door. 

Yes, Mr. Kitely. What’s the matter ? ” 

Here’s that young devil’s lamb, W’orboise, been and sent a 
letter to Miss Burton by your Poppie, and he’s a-waitin’ an 
answer. Come along, and we’ll take him alive.” 

But what do you want to do v/ith him ? ” asked Spelt. 

Take him to Mr. Fuller.” 

‘‘But v/hat if he won’t come ?” 

“ WY can threaten him with the police, as if we knew aU 
about it. Come along, there’s no time to be lost.” 

“But what would you take him to Mr. Fuller for ?” 

My reader may well be inclined to ask the same question. I 
will explain. Mr. Kitely was an original man in thinking, 
and a rarely practical man in following it up, for he had con- 
fidence in his own conclusions. Ever since hc^ had made the 
acquaintance of Mr. Fuller, through Mattie’s illness, he had 
been feeling his influence more and more, and was gradually 
reforming his ways in many little things that no one knew of 


324 


Guild Court 


but liimself. No one in London knew him as any thing hut 
an honest man, but I presume there are few men so honest 
that if they were to set about it seriously, they could not be 
honester still. I suspect that the most honest man of my 
acquaintance will be the readiest to acknowledge this ; for 
honesty has wonderful offshoots from its great tap-root. Hav- 
ing this experience in himself, he had faith in the moral power 
of Mr. Fuller. Again, since Lucy had come to live in the 
house, he had gi*own to admire her yet more, and the attention 
and kindness she continued to show to his princess, caused an 
equal gi’owth in his gratitude. Hence it became more and 
more monstrous in his eyes that she should be deprived of her 
rights in such a villainous manner by the wickedness of them 
"Worboises.” For the elder, he was afraid that he was beyond 
redemption ; but if he could get hold of the younger, and put 
him under Mr. Fuller’s pump, for that was how he represented 
the possible process of cleansing to himself, something might 
come of it. He did not know that Thomas was entirety ignor- 
ant of his father’s relation to the property of the late Kichard 
Boxall, and that no man in London would have less influence 
with Worboise, senior, than Worboise, Junior. He had had 
several communications with Mr. Fuller on the subject, and had 
told him all he knew. Mr. Fuller likewise had made out that 
this must be the same young man of whom Lucy had spoken in 
such trouble. But as he had disappeared, nothing could be 
done — even if he had had the same hope of good results from 
the interview as Mr. Kitety, whose simplicity and eagerness 
amused as well as pleased him. When Mr. K^itely, therefore, 
received from Poppie Thomas’s letter to give to Lucy, who 
happened to be out, he sped at once, with his natural prompti- 
tude, to secure Mr. Spelt’s assistance in carrying out his con- 
spiracy against Thomas. 

As soon as the two below heard Mr. Spelt scramble down 
and depart with Mr. Kitely, they issued from their station ; 
Mr. Holman anxious to assist in the capture, Mr. Salter wish- 
ing to enjoy his disgrace, for the odd sixpence rankled. As 
soon as they saw him within the inner door of the church they 
turned and departed. They knew nothing about churches, 
and were unwilling to enter. They did not know what they 
might be in for, if they went in. Neither had they any idea 
for what object Thomas was taken there. Holman went away 
with some vague notion about the Ecclesiastical Court ; for he 
tried to read the papers sometimes. This notion he imparted 
with equal vagueness to the brain of Jim Salter, already mud- 


325 


The Confession* 

died with the beer he had drunk. Dolman went hack to his 
work, hoping to hear about it when Spelt came home. Jim 
wandered eastward to convey a somewhat incorrect idea of 
what had happened to the inhabitants of the Mermaid. Hav- 
ing his usual design on the Mermaid’s resources, his storv lost 
nothing in the telling, and, in great perplexity, and greater 
uneasiness. Captain Smith and Mr. Potts started to find out 
the truth of the matter. Jim conducted them to the church 
door, which was still open, and retired round the comer. 

Meantime the captors and the culprit waited till the service 
was over. As soon as Mr. Fuller had retired to the vestry, 
and the congregation had dispersed, Mr. Kitely intimated to 
Thomas that he must follow him, and led the way up the 
church. With the fear of the police still before his eyes, 
Thomas did follow, and the little tailor brought up the rear. 
Hardly waiting, in his impatience, to knock at the door, Mr. 
Kitely popped his head in as Mr. Fuller was standing in his 
shirt-sleeves, and said wdth ill-suppressed triumph : 

Here he is, sir ! Fve got him ! ” 

Whom do you mean ? ” said Mr. Fuller, arrested by sur- 
prise with one arm in his coat and the other hand searching 
for the other sleeve. 

Young Worboise. The lawyer-chap, you know sir,” he 
added, seeing that the name conveyed no idea. 

Oh ! said Mr. Fuller, prolongedly. Show him in, then.” 
And on went his coat. 

Thomas entered, staring in bewilderment. Kor was Mr. Ful- 
ler quite at his ease at first, when the handsome, brown sailor- 
lad stepped into the vestry. But he shook hands with him, 
and asked him to take a chair. Thomas obeyed. Seeing his 
conductors lingered, Mr. Fuller then said : 

You must leave us alone now, Mr. Kitely. How do 
do, Mr. Spelt?” 

They retired, and, after a short consultation together in the 
church, agreed that they had done their part and could do no 
more, and went home. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

THE COHFESSIOH. 

As soon as the door closed behind them, Mr. Fuller turned 
to Tom, saying, as he took a chair near him, I’m very glad 


326 


Guild Court, 


to see you, Mr. Worboise. I have long wanted to have a little 
talk with you.” 

‘‘Will you tell me,” said Tom, with considerable uneasiness, 
notwithstanding the pacific appearance of everything about 
him, “ why those people have made me come to you ? I was 
afraid of making a row in the street, and so I thought it better 
to give in. But I have not an idea why I am here.” 

Mr. Fuller thought there must be some farther reason, else 
a young man of Thomas’s appearance would not have so quietly 
yielded to the will of two men like Kitely and Spelt. But he 
kept this conclusion to himself. 

“It certainly was a most unwarrantable proceeding if they 
used any compulsion. But I have no intention of using any — 
nor should I have much chance,” he added, laughing, “if it 
came to a tussle with a young fellow like you, Mr. Worboise.” 

This answer restored Tom to his equanimity a little. 

“Perhaps you know my father,” he said, finding that Mr. 
Fuller was silent. In fact, Mr. Fuller was quite puzzled how 
to proceed. He cared little for the business part, and for the 
other, he must not compromise Lucy. Clearly the lawyer- 
business v/as the only beginning. And this question of Tom’s 
helped him to it. 

“I have not the pleasure of knovfing your father. I wish I 
had. But, after all, it is better I should have a chat with you 
first.” 

“ Most willingly,” said Tom, with courtesy. 

“ It is a very unconventional thing I am about to do. But 
very likely you will give me such information as will enable me 
to set the minds of some of my friends at rest. I am perfectly 
aware what a lame introduction this is, and I must make a 
foolish figure indeed, except you will kindly understand that 
sometimes a clergyman is compelled to meddle with matters 
which he would gladly leave alone.” 

“I have too much need of forbearance myself not to gvant 
it, sir — although I do not believe any will be necessary in your 
case. Pray make me understand you.” 

Mr. Fuller was greatly pleased with this answer, and pro- 
ceeded to business at once. 

“lam told by a man who is greatly interested in one of the 
parties concerned, that a certain near relative of yours is in 
possession of a large property which ought by right, if not by 
law, to belong to an old lady who is otherwise destitute. I 
wish to employ your mediation to procure a settlement upon 
her of such small portion of the property at least as will make 


327 


The Confession, 

her independent. I am certainly explicit enough now/’ con- 
cluded Mr. Fuller, with a considerable feeling of relief in hav- 
ing discharged himself, if not of his duty, yet of so creditable 
a beginning of it. 

am as much in the dark as ever, sir,” returned Thomas, 
know nothing of what you refer to. If you mean my 
father, I am the last one to know anything of his affairs. I 
have not seen him or heard of him for months.” 

‘^But you cannot surely be ignorant of the case. It has 
been reported in the public prints from time to time. It 
seems that your father has come in for the contingent rever- 
sion — I think that is the phrase. I’m not sure — of all the 
property of the late Bichard Boxall — ” 

‘‘By Jove !” cried Thomas, starting to his feet in a rage, 
then sinking back on his chair in conscious helplessness. 
“ He did make his will,” he muttered. 

^ “Leaving,” Mr. Fuller went on, “the testator’s mother and 
his niece utterly unprovided for.” 

“But she had money of her own in the business. I have 
heard her say so a thousand times.” 

“ She has nothing now.” 

“ My father is a villain ! ” cried Thomas, starting once more 
to his feet, and pacing up and down in the little vestry like a 
wild beast in a cage. “And what am he added, after a 
pause. “I have brought all this upon her.” Ho could say 
no more. He sat down, hid his face in his hands, and sobbed. 

Thomas was so far mistaken in this, that his father, after 
things had gone so far as they had, would have done as he had 
done, whatever had been Thomas’s relations to the lady. But 
certainly, if he had behaved as he ought, things could not 
have gone thus far. He was the cause of all the trouble. 

Nothing could have been more to Mr. Fuller’s mind. 

“As to Miss Burton,” he said, “I happen to know that she 
has another grief, much too great to allow her to think about 
money. A clergyman, you know, comes to hear of many 
things. She never told me who he was,” said Mr. Fuller, with 
hesitation ; “ but she confessed to me that she was in great 
trouble.” 

“Oh, sir, what shall I do?” cried Thomas; “I love her 
with all my heart, but I can never, never dare to think of her 
more. I came up to London at the risk of — of — I came up 
to London only to see her and give her back this ring, and beg 
her to forgive me, and go away forever. And now I have not 
only given her pain — ” 


328 


OuM Court 


Pain ! ’’ said Mr. Fuller. If she weren’t so good, her 
heart would have broken before now.” 

Thomas burst out sobbing again. He turned his face away 
from Mr. Fuller and stood by the wall, shaken with misery. 
Mr. Fuller left him alone for a minute or two. Then, going 
up to him, he put his hand on his shoulder, kindly, and said : 

^^My dear boy, I suspect you have got into some terrible 
scrape, or you would not have disappeared as they tell me. 
And your behavior seems to confirm the suspicion. Tell me 
all about it, and I have very little doubt that I can help you 
out of it. But you must tell me every thing, 

“ I will, sir ; I will,” Tom sobbed. 

Mind, no half -confessions. I have no right to ask you to 
confess but on the ground of helping you. But if I am to 
help you, I must know all. Can I trust you that you will be 
quite straightforward and make a clean breast of it ?” 

Tom turned round, and looked Mr. Fuller calmly in the 
face. The light of hope shone in his eyes : the very offer of 
hearing all his sin and misery gave him hope. To tell it, 
v/ould be to get rid of some of the wretchedness. 

hate myself so, sir,” he said, that I do not feel it worth 
while to hide anything. I will speak the truth. When you 
wish to know more than I tell, ask me any questions you 
please, and I will answer them.” 

At this moment a tap was heard at the vestry door, and it 
opened, revealing two strange figures with scared, interro- 
gating faces on the top — the burly form of Captain Smith, 
and the almost as bulky, though differently arranged, form of 
Mr. Potts. 

‘^Don’t’ee be too hard on the young gentleman, sir,” said 
Mr. Potts, in the soothing tone of one who would patch up a 
family quarrel. He won’t do it again. I’ll go bail. You 
don’t know, sir, what a good sort he is. Don’t’ee get him into 
no trouble. He lost his life — all but— a reskewing of my 
Bessie. He did now. True as the Bible, sir,” added Mr. 
Potts, with conciliatory flattery to the clergyman’s profession, 
whom they both took for the father or uncle of Thomas. 

You just let me take him off again, sir,” put in Captain 
Smith, while the face of Mr. Potts, having recovered its_ usual 
complexion, looked on approvingly like a comic but benevolent 
moon. 

Mr. Fuller had a wise way of never interrupting till he saw 
in what direction the sense lay. So he let them talk, and the 
seaman went on ; 


329 


The Confessim, 

Everybody knows the sea’s the place for curing the likes 
o’ them hne fellows that carries too much sail ashore. They 
soon learns their reef -points there. Why, parson, sir, he’s 
been but three or four voyages, and I’ll take him for an able- 
bodied seaman to-morrow. He’s a right good sort, though he 
may ha’ been a little frolicsome on shore. We was all young 
once, sir.” 

‘^Are these men friends of yours, Mr. Worboise ?” asked 
Mr. Fuller. 

‘‘Indeed they are,” answered Thomas. “I think I must 
have killed myself before now, if it hadn’t been for those two.” 

So saying, he shook hands with Mr. Potts, and, turning to 
the captain, said ; 

“ Thank you, thank you, captain, but I am quite safe with 
this gentleman. I will come and see you to-morrow.” 

“ He shall sleep at my house to-night,” said Mr. Fuller ; 
“and no harm shall happen to him, I promise you.” 

“Thank you, sir;” and “Good-night, gentlemen,” said 
both, and went through the silent, wide church with a kind of 
awe that rarely visited either of them. 

Without further preface than just the words, “ Now, I will 
tell you all about it, sir,” Thomas began his story. When he 
had finished it, having answered the few questions he put to 
him in its course, Mr. Fuller was satisfied that he did know all 
about it, and that if ever there was a case in which he ought 
to give all the help he could, here was one. He did not utter 
a word of reproof. Thomas’s condition of mind was such that 
it was not only unnecessary, but might have done harm. He 
had now only to be met with the same simplicity which he had 
himself shown. The help must match the confession. 

“ Well, we must get you out of this scrape, somehow,” he 
said, heartily. 

“I don’t see how you can, sir.” 

“It rests with yourself chiefly. Another can only help. 
The feet that walked into the mire must turn and walk out of 
it again. I don’t mean to reproach you — only to encourage 
you to effort.” 

“What effort?” said Tom. “I have scarcely heart for 
anything. I have disgraced myself forever. Suppose all the 
consequences of my — doing as I did ” — he could not yet call 
the deed by its name — “were to disappear, I have a blot upon 
me to all eternity, that nothing can wash out. For there is 
the fact. I almost think it is not worth while to do anything.” 

“ You are altogether wrong about that,” returned Mr. Fuller. 


330 


Guild Court 


It is true tliat the deed is done, and that that cannot bo 
obliterated. But a living soul may outgrow all stain and all 
reproach— I do not mean in the judgment of men merely, but 
in the judgment of God, which is always founded on the 
actual fact, and always calls things by their right names, and 
covers no man’s sin, although he forgives it and takes it away. 
A man may abjure his sin so, cast it away from him so utterly, 
with pure heart and full intent, that, although he did it, it is 
his no longer. But, Thomas Worboise, if the stain of it were 
to cleave to you to all eternity, that would be infinitely better 
than that you should have continued capable of doing the 
thing. You are more honorable now than you were before. 
Then you were capable of the crime ; now, I trust, you are not. 
It was far better that, seeing your character was such that you 
could do it, you should thus be humbled by disgracing your- 
self, than that you should have gone on holding up a proud 
head in the world, with such a deceitful hollow of weakness in 
your heart. It is the kindest thing God can do for his chil- 
dren, sometimes, to let them fall in the mire. You would not 
hold by your Father’s hand ; you struggled to pull it away ; 
he let it go, and there you lay. Now that you stretch forth 
the hand to him again, he will take you, and clean, not your 
garments only, but your heart, and soul, and consciousness. 
Pray to your Father, my boy. He will change your humilia- 
tion into humility, your shame into purity.” 

^^Oh, if he were called anything else than Father I I am 
afraid I hate my father.” 

I don’t wonder. But that is your own fault, too.” 

^^How is that, sir? Surely you are making even me out 
worse than I am.” 

No. You are afraid of him. As soon as you have ceased 
to bo afraid of him, you will no longer be in danger of hating 
him.” 

^‘1 can’t help being afraid of him.” 

You must break the bonds of that slavery. No slave can 
be God’s servant. His servants are all free men. But we will 
come to that presently. You must not try to call God your 
Father, till father means something very different to you from 
what it seems to mean now. Think of the grandest human 
being you can imagine— the ten derest, the most gracious, 
whose severity is boundless, but hurts himself most — all against 
evil, all for the evil-doer. God is all that, and infinitely more. 
You need not call him by any name till the name bursts from 
your heart. God our Saviour means all the names in the 


331 


The Confession. 

world, and infinitely more ! One thing I can assure you of, 
that even I, if you will but do your duty in regard to this 
thing, will not only love — yes, I will say that word — will not 
only love, but honor you far more than if I had known you 
only as a respectable youth. It is harder to turn back than to 
keep at home. I doubt if there could be such joy in heaven 
oyer the repenting sinner if he was never to be free of his 
disgrace. But I like you the better for having the feeling of 
eternal disgrace now.” 

I will think God is like you, sir. Tell me what I am to do.” 

I am going to set you the hardest of tasks, one after the 
other. They will be like the pinch of death. But they must 
be done. And after that — peace. Who is at the head of the 
late Mr. Boxall’s business now ? ” 

suppose Mr. Stopper. He was head-clerk.” 

You must go to him and take him the money you stole.” 

Thomas turned ashy pale, 
haven’t got it, sir.” 

How much was it, did you say ? ” 

Eleven pounds — nearly twelve.” 

‘‘ I will find you the money. I will lend it to you.” 

Thank you, thank you, sir. I will not spend a penny I 
can help till I repay you. But — ” 

Yes, now come the hutsf said Mr. Fuller, with a smile of 
kindness. What is the first out ? ” 

Stopper is a hard man, and never liked me. He will give 
me up to the lavv^.” 

‘^1 can’t help it. It must be done. But I do not believe he 
will do that. I will help you so far as to promise you to do all 
that lies in my power in every way to prevent it. And there 
is your father ; his word will bo law with him now.” 

So much the worse, sir. He is ten times as hard as Stop- 
per.” 

He will not be willing to disgrace his own family, though.” 

I know what he will do. He will make it a condition that 
I shall give up Lucy. But I will go to prison before I will do 
that. Hot that it will make any difference in the end, for 
Lucy won’t have a word to say to me now. She bore all that 
woman could bear. But she shall give me up — she has given 
me up, of course ; but I will never give her up that way.” 

That’s right, my boy. Well, what do you say to it ? ” 

Tom was struggling with himself. With a sudden resolve, 
the source of which he could not tell, he said, I will, sir.” 
With a new light in his face he added, What next ? ” 


332 


Guild Court 


Then you must go to your father.” 

‘^That is far worse. I am afraid I canT.” 

You must — if you should not find a word to say when 
you go — if you should fall in a faint on the floor when you 
try.” 

I will, sir. Am I to tell him everything ?” 

I am not prepared to say that. If he had been a true 
father to you, I should have said ^ Of course.’ But there is no 
denying the fact that such he has not been, or rather, that 
such he is not. The point lies there. I think that alters the 
affair. It is one thing to confess to God and another to the 
devil. Excuse me, I only put the extremes.” 

^^What ought I to tell him, then ?” 

I think you will know that best when you see him. We 
cannot tell how much he knows.” 

Yes,” said Thomas, thoughtfully ; I will tell him that I 
am sorry I went away as I did, and ask him to forgive me. 
Will that do?” 

‘‘1 must leave all that to your ovm conscience, heart, and 
honesty. Of course, if he receives you at all, you must try 
what you can do for Mrs. Boxall.” 

Alas ! I know too well how useless that will he. It will 
only enrage him the more at them. He may offer to put it all 
right, though, if I promise to give Lucy up. Must I do that, 
sir ? ” 

Knowing more about Lucy’s feelings than Thomas, Mr. 
Fuller answered at once — though if he had hesitated, he might 
have discovered ground for hesitating — 

On no account whatever.” 

And what must I do next ?” he asked, more cheerfully. 

There’s your mother.” 

‘‘Ah I you needn’t remind me of her.” 

“ Then you must not forget Miss Burton. You have some 
apology to make to her too, I suppose.” 

“I had just sent her a note, asking her to meet me once 
more, and was waiting for her answer, when the bookseller 
laid hold of mo. I was so afraid of making a row, lest the 
police should come, that I gave in to him. I owe him more 
than ever I can repay.” 

“You will when you have done all you have undertaken.” 

“ But how am I to see Lucy now ? She will not know 
where I am. But perhaps she will not want to see me.” 

Here Tom looked very miserable again. Anxious to give 
him courage, Mr. Fuller said ; 


333 


Thomas and Mr, Stopper, 

Come home with me now. In the morning, after you 
have seen Mr. Stopper, and yoi,ir father and mother, come 
back to my house. I am sure she will see you.” 

With more thanks in his heart than on his tongue, Tom 
followed Mr. Fuller from the church. When they stepped 
into the street, they found the bookseller, the seaman, and the 
publican, talking together on the pavement. 

_ It’s all right,” said Mr. Fuller, as he passed them. Good- 
night.” Then, turning again to Mr. Kitely, he added, in a 
low voice, He knows nothing of his father’s behavior, Kitely. 
You’ll be glad to hear that.” 

‘‘1 ought to be glad to hear it for his own sake, I suppose,” 
returned the bookseller. But I don’t know as I am, for all 
that. ” 

‘‘ Have patience, have patience,” said the parson, and walked 
on, taking Thomas by the arm. 

For the rest of the evening Mr. Fuller avoided much talk 
with the penitent, and sent him to bed early. 


CHAPTEE XLVII. 

THOMAS AND ME. STOPPER. 

Thomas did not sleep much that night, and was up betimes 
in the morning. Mr. Fuller had risen before him, however, 
and when Thomas went down stairs, after an invigorating cold 
bath which his host had taken special care should be provided 
for him, along with clean linen, he found him in his study 
reading. He received him very heartily, looking him, with 
some anxiety, in the face, as if to see whether he could read 
action there. Apparently he was encouraged, for his own face 
brightened up, and they were soon talking together earnestly. 
But knowing Mr. Stopper’s habit of being first at the counting- 
house, Thomas was anxious about the time, and Mr. Fuller 
hastened breakfast. That and prayers over, he put twelve 
pounds into Thomas’s hand, which he had been oufc that 
morning already to borrow from a friend. Then, with a quak- 
ing heart, but determined will, Thomas set out and walked 
straight to Bagot Street. Finding no one there but the man 
sweeping out the place, he went a little farther, and there was 


334 


Guild Court 


the bookseller arranging his stall outside the window. Mr. 
Kitely regarded him with doubtful eyes, vouchsafing him a 
‘^good-morning” of the gruffest. 

“Mr. Kitely,” said Thomas, “I am more obliged to you 
than I can tell, for what you did last night.” 

“ Perhaps you ought to be ; but it wasn’t for your sake, Mr. 
Worboise, that I did it.” 

“ I am quite aware of that. Still, if you will allow me to 
say so, I am as much obliged to you as if it had been.” 

Mr. Kitely grumbled something, for he was not jirepared to 
be friendly. 

“Will you let me wait in your shop till Mr. Stopper comes ? ” 

“There he is.” 

Thomas’s heart beat fast ; but he delayed only to give Mr. 
Stopper time to enter the more retired part of the counting- 
house. Then he hurried to the door and went in. 

Mr. Stopper was standing with his back to the glass parti- 
tion, and took the entrance for that of one of his clerks. 
Thomas tapped at the glass door, but not till ho had opened it 
and said “ Mr. Stopper,” did he take any notice. He started 
then, and turned ; but, having regarded him for a moment, 
gave a rather constrained smile, and, to his surprise, held out 
his hand. 

“ It is very good of you to speak to mo at all, Mr. Stopper,” 
said Thomas, touched with gratitude already. “I don’t de- 
serve it.” 

“ Well, I must say you behaved rather strangely, to say the 
least of it. It might have been a serious thing for 3*011, Mr. 
Thomas, if I hadn’t been more friendly than you would have 
given me credit for. Look here.” 

And he showed him the sum of eleven pounds thirteen 
shillings and eightpence halfpenny put down to Mr. Stopper’s 
debit in the petty cash-book. 

“You understand that, I presume, Mr. Thomas. You ran 
the risk of transportation there.” 

“I know I did, Mr. Stopper. But just listen to me a mo- 
ment, and you will be able to forgive me, I think. I had been 
drinking, and gambling, and losing all night ; and I believe I 
was really drunk when I did that. Not that I didn’t know I 
was doing wrong. I can’t say that. And I know it doesn’t 
clear me at all, but I want to tell you the truth of it. I’ve 
been wretched ever since, and daren’t show myself. I have 
been bitterly punished. I haven’t touched cards or dice since. 
Here’s the money,” he concluded, offering the notes and gold. 


Thomas and Mr, Stopper, 335 

Mr. Stopper did not heed the aetion at first. He was re- 
garding Thomas rather curiously. Thomas perceiyed it. 

Yes,” Thomas said, I am a sailor. It’s an honest way of 
living, and I like it.” 

But you’ll come back noAv, won’t you ?” 

That depends,” answered Thomas. ‘‘Would you take me, 
now, Mr. Stopper ? ” he added, with a feeble experimental 
smile. “But there’s the money. Do take it out of my 
hands.” 

“It lies with your father now, Mr. Thomas. Have you 
been to Highbury ? Of course, I took care not to let him 
know.” 

“ Thank you heartily. I’m just going there. Do take the 
horrid money, and let me feel as if I weren’t a thief after 
aU.” 

“As for the money, eleven pound, odd,” said Mr. Stopper, 
without looking at it, “that’s neither here nor there. It was 
a burglary, there can be no doubt, under the circumstances. 
But I owe you a quarter’s salary, though I should not be bound 
to pay it, seeing you left as you did. Still, I want to be friend- 
ly, and you worked very fairly for it. I v,dll hand you over the 
difference.” 

“No, never mind that. I don’t care about the money. It 
was all that damned play,” said Thomas. 

“ Don’t swear, Mr. Thomas,” returned Stopper, taking out 
the check-book, and proceeding to write a check for thirteen 
pounds six shillings and fourpence. 

“If you had suffered as much from it as I have, Mr. Stop- 
per, you would see no harm in damning it.’’ 

Mr. Stopper made no reply, but handed him the check, with 
the words : 

“ Now we’re clear, Mr. Thomas. But don’t do it again. It 
won’t pass twice. I’ve saved you this time,” 

“ Do it again ! ” cried Thomas, seizing Mr. Stopper’s hand ; 
“I would sooner cut my own throat. Thank you, thank you 
a thousand times, Mr. Stopper,” he added, his heart brimful 
at this beginning of his day of horror. ^ 

Mr. Stopper very coolly withdrew his hand, turned round on 
his stool, replaced his check-book in the drawer, and proceed- 
ed to arrange his writing materials, as if nobody were there but 
himself. He knew well enough that it was not for Thomas’s 
sake that he had done it ; but he had no particular objection 
;o take the credit of it. There was something rudely impos- 
ing in the way in which he behaved to Thomas, and Thomas 


336 


Guild Court, 


felt it and did not resent it : for lie had no right to be indig- 
nant : he was glad of any terms he could make. Let us hope 
that Mr. Stopper had a glimmering of how it might feel to 
have been kind, and that he was a little more ready in conse- 
quence to do a friendly deed in time to come, even when he 
could reap no benefit from it. Though Mr. Stopper’s assump- 
tion of faithful friendship could only do him harm, yet perhaps 
Thomas’s ready acknowledgment of it might do him good ; for 
not unfrequently to behaye to a man as good rouses his con- 
science and makes him wish that he were as good as he is taken 
for. It gives him almost a taste of what goodness is like — cer- 
tainly a veiy faint and far-off taste — yet a something. 

Thomas left the counting-house a free man. He bounded 
back to Mr. Fuller, returned the money, showed him the 
check, and told him all. 

There’s a beginning for you, my boy ! ” said Mr. Fuller, 
as delighted almost as Thomas himself. ^^Now for the 
next.” 

There came the rub. Thomas’s countenance fell. He was 
afraid, and Mr. Fuller saw it. 

^‘You daren’t go near Lucy till you have been to your 
father. It would be to insult her, Thomas. ” 

Tom caught up his cap from the table and left the house, 
once more resolved. It would be useless to go to Highbury at 
this hour ; he would find his father at his office in the city. 
And he had not far to go to find him — unfortunately, thought 
Tom. 


CHAPTEE XLVIII. 

THOMAS AND HIS FATHER. 

When he was shown into his father’s room he was writing a 
letter. Looking up and seeing Tom he gave a grin — that is, a 
laugh without the smile in it — handed him a few of his fingers, 
pointed to a chair, and went on with his letter. This recep- 
tion irritated Tom, and perhaps so far did him good that it 
took off the edge of his sheepishness — or rather, I should have 
said, put an edge upon it. Before his father he did not feel 
that he appeared exactly as a culprit. He had told him either 
to give up Lucy, or not to show his face at home again. He 


Thomas and his Father, 


337 


had lost Lucy, it might be — though hope had reviYcd greatly 
since his interview with Mr. Stopper ; but, in any case, even 
if she refused to see him, he would not give her up. So ho 
sat, more composed than he had expected to be, waiting for 
what should follow. In a few minutes his father looked up 
again, as he methodically folded his letter, and casting a sneer- 
ing glance at his son’s garb, said : 

‘‘What’s the meaning of this masquerading, Tom ?” 

“ It means that I am dressed like my work,” answered Tom, 
surprised at his own coolness, now that the ice was broken. 

“ What’s your work, then, pray ? ” 

“ I’m a sailor.” 

“You a sailor ! A horse-marine, I suppose ! Ha, ha ! ” 

“ I’ve made five coasting voyages since you turned me out,” 
said Tom. 

“ I turned you out ! You turned yourself out. Why the 
devil did you come back, then ? Why don’t you stick to your 
new trade ?” 

“You told me either to give up Lucy Burton, or take lodg- 
ings in Wapping. I won’t give up Lucy Burton.” 

“ Take her to hell, if you like. What do you come back here 
for with your cursed impudence ? There’s nobody I want less.” 

This was far from true. He had been very uneasy about his 
son. Yet now that he saw him — a prey to the vile demon that 
ever stirred up his avarice till the disease, which was as the 
rust spoken of by the prophet St. James, was eating his flesh 
as it were fire — his tyrannical disposition, maddened by the re- 
sistance of his son, and the consequent frustration of his 
money-making plans, broke out in this fierce, cold, blasting 
wrath. 

“ I come here,” said Thomas — and he said it merely to dis- 
charge himself of a duty, for he had not the thinnest shadow 
of a hope that it would be of service — “ I come here to protest 
against the extreme to which you are driving your legal 
rights — which I have only just learned — against Mrs. Boxall.” 

“And her daughter. But I am not aware that I am driving 
my rights, as you emphasize the word,” said Mr. Worboise, 
relapsing into his former manner, so cold that it stung ; “for 
I believe I have driven them already almost as far as my 
knowledge of affairs allows me to consider prudent. I have 
turned those people out of the house.” 

“ You have ! ” cried Thomas, starting to his feet. “ Father ! 
father ! you are worse than even I thought you. It is cruel ; 
it is wicked.” 

32 


338 


Guild Court, 


^^Dou’fc discompose yourseK about it. It is all your own 
fault, my son.” 

I am no son of yours. Prom this moment I renounce you, 
and call you father no more,” cried Thomas, in mingled wrath 
and horror and consternation at the atrocity of his father’s 
conduct. 

By what name, then, will you be pleased to be known in 
future, that I may say when I hear ifc that you are none of 
mine ?” 

‘•Oh, the deyil !” burst out Tom, beside himself with his 
fatlier’s behavior and treatment. 

“ Very well. Then I beg again to inform you, Mr. Devil, that 
it is your own fault. Give up that girl, and I v/ill provide for 
the lovely siren and her harridan of a grandam for life ; and 
take you home to Vv^ealth and a career which you shall choose 
for yourself. ” 

“No, father. I will not.” 

“ Then take yourself off, and be — ” It is needless to print 
the close of the sentence. 

Thomas rose and left the room. As he went down the 
stairs, his father shouted after him, in a tone of fury : 

“You’re not to go near your mother, mind.” 

“ I’m going straight to her,” answered Tom, as quietly as 
he could. 

“If you do. I’ll murder her.” 

Tom came up the stairs again to the door next his father’s 
where the clerks sat. He opened this and said aloud : 

“ Gentlemen, you hear what my father has just said. There 
may be occasion to refer to it again.” Then returning to his 
father’s door, he said, in a low tone which only he could hear : 
“ My mother may die any moment, as you very well know, 
sir. It may be awkward after what has just passed.” 

Having said this, he left his father a little abashed. As his 
wrath ebbed, he began to admire his son’s presence of mind, 
and even to take some credit for it : “A chip of the old 
block ! ” he muttered to himself. “Who wmiild have thought 
there was so much in the rascal ? Seafaring must agree with 
the young beggar ! ” 

Thomas hailed the first hansom, jumped in, and drove 
straight to Highbury. Was it strange that notwithstanding 
the dreadful interview he had just had — notwithstanding, too, 
that he feared he had not behaved properly to his father, for 
his conscience had already begun to speak about comparatively 
little things, having been at last hearkened to in regard to 


Thomas and Ms Mother, 


339 


gi’eat things — that notwithstanding this, he should feel such a 
gladness in his being as he had never known before ? The 
second and more awful load of duty was now lifted from his 
mind. True, if he had loved his father much, as it was 
simply impossible that he should, that load would have been 
replaced by another — misery about his father’s wretched con- 
dition and the loss of his love. But although something of 
this would come later, the thought of it did not intrude now 
to destroy any of the enjoyment of the glad reaction from 
months — he would have said years — yea, a whole past life of 
misery — ^for the whole of his jiast life had been such a poor 
thing, that it seemed now as if the misery of the last few 
months had been only the misery of all his life coming to a 
head. And this indeed was truer than his judgment would 
yet have allowed : it was absolute fact, although he attributed 
it to an overwrought fancy. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

THOMAS AKD HIS MOTHEE. 

When the maid opened the door to him she stared like an 
idiot, yet she was in truth a woman of sense ; for, before 
Thomas had reached the foot of the stairs, she ran after him, 
saying : 

Mr. Thomas ! Mr. Thomas ! you mustn’t go up to mis’ess 
all of a sudden. You’ll kill her if you do.” 

Thomas paused at once. 

^^Run up and tell her, then. Make haste.” 

She sped up the stairs, and Thomas followed, waiting out- 
side his mother’s door. He had to wait a little while, for the 
maid was imparting the news with circumspection. He heard 
the low tone of his mother’s voice, but could not hear what 
she said. At last came a little cry, and then he could hear her 
sob. A minute or two more passed, which seemed endless to 
Thomas, and then the maid came to tlie door, and asked him 
to go in. He obeyed. 

His mother lay in bed, propped up as she used to be on the 
sofa. She looked much worse than before. She stretched out 


840 


Guild Court, 


her arms to him, kissed him, and held his head to her bosom. 
He had never before had such an embrace from her. 

boy ! my boy !” she cried, weeping. Thank God ! 
I have you again. You’ll tell me all about it, won’t you ? ” 
She went on weeping and murmuring vfords of endearment 
and gratitude for some time. Then she released him, holding 
one of his hands only. 

There’s a chair there. Sit down and tell me about it. I 
am afraid your poor father has been hard upon you.” 

We won’t talk about my father,” said Thomas. I have 
faults enough of my own to confess, mother. But I won’t tell 
you all about them now. I have been very wicked — gambling 
and worse ; but I will never do so any more. I am ashamed 
" i I think God will forgive me. Will you forgive 



With all my heart, my boy. And you know that God for- 
gives every one that believes in Jesus. I hope you have given 
your heart to him, at last. Then I shall die happy.” 

I don’t know, mother, whether I have or not ; but I want 
to do what’s right.” 

That won’t save you, my poor child. You’ll have a talk 
with Mr. Simon about it, won’t you ? I’m not able to argue 
anything now.” 

It would have been easiest for Thomas to say nothing, and 
leave his mother to hope, at least ; but he had begun to be 
honest, therefore he would not deceive her. But in his new 
anxiety to be honest, he was in great danger of speaking 
jroughly, if not rudely. Those who find it difficult to oppose 
are in more danger than others of falling into that error when 
they make opposition a point of conscience. The unpleasant- 
ness of the duty irritates them. 

Mother, I will listen to anything you choose to say ; but I 
won’t see that — ” fool he was going to say, but he changed the 
epithet — I won’t talk about such things to a man for whom 
I have no respect.” 

Mrs. Worboise gave a sigh ; but, perhaps partly because her 
own respect for Mr. Simon had been a little shaken of late, 
she said nothing more. Thomas resumed. 

If I hadn’t been taken by the hand by a very different 
man from him, mother, I shouldn’t have been here to- 
day. Thank God ! Mr. Fuller is something like a clergy- 
man ! ” 

Who is he, Thomas ? I think I have heard the name.” 

He is the clergyman of St. Amos’s in the city.” 


Thomas and his Mother, 341 

! I thougM so. A Eitualist, I am afraid, Thomas. 
They lay snares for young people.” 

‘‘ Nonsense, mother ! ” said Tliomas, irreverently. “ I donT 
know what you mean. Mr. Fuller, I think, would not feel 
flattered to be told that he belonged to any party whatever but 
that of J esus Christ himself. But I should say, if he belonged 
to any, it would be the Broad Church. ” 

‘‘ I don’t know which is worse. The one believes all the 
lying idolatry of the Papists ; the other believes nothing at 
all. I’m sadly afraid, Thomas, you’ve been reading Bishop 
Colenso.” 

Mrs. Worhoise believed, of course, in no distinctions but 
those she saw ; and if she had heard the best men of the Broad 
Church party repudiate Bishop Colenso, she would only have 
set it down to Jesuitism. 

‘‘ A sailor hasn’t much time for reading, mother.” 

A sailor, Thomas ! What do you mean ? Where have you 
been all this time ?” she asked, examining his appearance 
anxiously. 

‘^At sea, mother.” 

My boy ! my boy I that is a godless calling. However — 

Thomas interrupted her. 

‘‘ They that go down to the sea in ships were supposed once 
to see the wonders of the Lord, mother.” 

Yes. But when will you be reasonable ? That was in 
David’s time.” 

‘‘The sea is much the same, and man’s heart is much the 
same. Anyhow, I’m a sailor, and a sailor I must be. I have 
nothing else to do.” 

“Mr. Boxall’s business is all your father’s now, I hear; 
though I’m sure I cannot understand it. Whatever you’ve 
done, you can go back to the counting-house, you know.” 

“ I can’t, mother. My father and! have parted forever.” 

“ Tom!” 

“It’s true, mother.” 

“ Why is that ? What have you been doing ?” 

“ Eef using to give up Lucy Burton.” 

“ Oh, Tom, Tom I Why do you set yourself against your 
father?” . , , , 

“Well, mother, I don’t want to be impertinent; but it 
seems to me it’s no more than you have been doing all your 
life.” 

“For conscience’ sake, Tom. But in matters indifferent 
we ought to yield, you know.” 


342 


Guild Court 


it an indifferent matter to keep one’s engagements, 
mother ? To be true to one’s word ? ” 

But you had no right to make them.” 

They are made, anyhow, and I must bear the consequences 
of keeping them.” 

Mrs. Worboise, poor woman, was nearly worn out. Tom saw 
it, and rose to go. 

Am I never to see you again, Tom ? ” she asked, despair- 
ingly. 

Every time I come to London — so long as my father 
doesn’t make you shut the door against me, mother.” 

‘‘ That shall never be, my boy. And you really are going 
on that sea again ?” 

^'Yes, mother. It’s an honest calling. And believe me, 
mother, it’s often easier to pray to God on shipboard than it 
is sitting at a desk.” 

AYell, well, my boy !” said his mother, with a great sigh of 
weariness. If I only knew that you were possessed of saving 
faith, I could bear even to hear that you had been drowned. 
It may happen any day, you know, Thomas.” 

‘^Not till God please. I shan’t be drowned before that.” 

God has given no pledge to protect any but those that put 
faith in the merits of his Son.” 

Mother, mother, I can’t tell a bit what you mean.” 

The way of salvation is so plain that he that runneth may 

So you say, mother ; but I don’t see it so. Now I’ll tell 
you what : I want to be good.” 

‘^My dear boy !” 

And I pray, and will pray to God to teach me whatever he 
wants me to learn. So if your way is the right one, God will 
teach me that. Will that satisfy you, mother ? ” 

‘‘ My dear, it is of no use mincing matters. God has told 
us plainly in his holy Word that he that puts his trust in the 
merits of Christ shall be saved ; and he that does not shall be 
sent to the place of misery for ever and ever.” 

The good woman believed that she was giving a true repre- 
sentation of the words of Scripture when she said so, and that 
they were an end of all controversy. 

But, mother, what if a man can’t believe ? ” 

Then he must take the consequences. There’s no provis- 
ion made for that in the Word.” 

‘'But if he wants to believe, mother?” said Tom, in a 
small agony at his mother’s hardness. 


Thomas and his Mother, 


34 ? 


There’s no man that can’t believe, if he’s only willing. I 
used to think otherwise. But Mr. Simon thinks so, and he 
has brought me to see that he is right.” 

Well, mother, I’m glad Mr. Simon is not at the head of 
the universe, for then it would be a paltry affair. But it ill 
becomes me to make remarks upon anybody. Mr. Simoq 
hasn’t disgraced himself like me after all, though I’m pretty 
sure if I had had such teaching as Mr. Fuller’s, instead of his, 
I should never have fallen as I have done. ” 

Thomas said this with some bitterness as he rose to take his 
leave. lie had no right to say so. Men as good as he, with 
teaching as good as Mr. Fuller’s, have yet fallen. He forgot 
that he had had the schooling of sin and misery to prepare the 
soil of his heart before Mr. FulleFs words were sown in it. Even 
Mr. Simon could have done a little for him in that condition, 
if he had only been capable of showing him a little pure 
human S5^mpathy. 

His mother gave him anotlier tearful embrace. Thomas’s 
heart was miserable at leaving her thus fearful, almost 
hopeless about him. How terrible it would be for her in the 
windy nights, when she could not sleep, to think that if he 
went to the bottom, it must be to go deeper still ! He 
searched his mind eagerly for something that might comfort 
her. It flashed upon him at last. 

Mother dear,” he said, ‘‘Jesus said, ‘Come unto me, all 
ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.’ I 
will go to him. I v.rill promise you that if you like. That is 
all I can say, and I think that ought to be enough. If he 
gives me rest, shall I not be safe ? And whoever says that he 
will not if I go to him — ” 

“In the appointed way, my dear.” 

“ He says nothing more than go to him, ^ I say I will go to 
him, the only way that a man can when he is in heaven and I 
am on the earth.* And if Mr. Simon or anybody says that he 
will not give mo rest, he is a liar. If that doesn’t satisfy you, 
mother, I don’t believe you have any faith in him yourself.” 

With this outburst, Thomas again kissed his mother, and 
then left the room. Hor did his last words displease her. I 
do not bv any means set him up as a pattern of filial respect 
even toward his motlier ; nor can I approve altogether of the 
form his confession of faith took, for there was in it a mixture 
of that graceless material — the wrath of man ; but it was good 
notwithstanding ; and such a blunt utterance was far more 
calculated to carry some hope into his mother’s mind than any 


344 Guild Court, 

amount of arguing upon the points of difference between 
them. 

As he reached the landing, his sister Amy came rushing up 
the stairs from the dining-room, with her hair in disorder, 
and a blushing face. 

Why Tom I ’’ she said, starting back. 

Tom took her in his arms. 

How handsome you haye grown, Tom ! ” said Amy ; and 
breaking from him, ran up to her mother’s room. 

Passing the dining-room door, Tom saw Mr. Simon looking 
into the fire. The fact was he had just made Amy an offer of 
marriage. Tom let him stand, and hurried back on foot to his 
friend, his heart full, and his thoughts in confusion. 

He found him in his study, where he had made a point of 
staying all day that Tom might find him at any moment when 
he might want him. He rose eagerly to meet him. 

^ Now I see by thine eyes that this is done,’ ” he said, 
quoting King Arthur. 

They sat down, and Tom told him all. 

‘‘I wish you had managed a little better with your father,” 
he said. 

I wish I had, sir. But it’s done, and there’s no help for 
it.” 

^^No ; I suppose not — at present, at least.” 

As far as Lucy is concerned, it would have made no differ- 
ence, if you had been in my place — I am confident of that.” 

I dare say you are right. But you have earned your din- 
ner anyhow ; and here comes my housekeeper to say it is 
ready. Come along.” 

Tnomas’s face fell. 

I thought I should have gone to see Lucy, now, sir.” 

I believe she will not be at home.” 

^‘She was always home from Mrs. Morgenstern’s before 
now.” 

^^Yes. But she has to work much harder now. You see 
her grandmother is dependent on her now.” 

And where are they ? My father told me himself he had 
turned them out of the house in Guild Court.” 

Yes. But they are no farther off for that ; they have 
lodgings at Mr. Kitely's. I think you had better go and see 
your friends the sailor and publican after dinner, and by the 
time you come back. I shall have arranged for your seeing 
her. You would hardly like to take your chance, and find 
her with her grandmother and Mattie.” 


Thomas and his Mother, 


345 


‘‘Who is Mattie ? Oh ! I know — that dreadful little imp 
of Kitely’s.” 

“ I dare say she can make herself unpleasant enough/’ said 
Mr. Fuller, laughing ; “ but she is a most remarkable and very 
interesting child. I could hardly have believed in such a child 
if I had not known her. She was in great danger, I allow, of 
turning out a little prig, if that word can be used of the 
feminine gender, but your friend Lucy has saved her from 
that.” 

“ God bless her !” said Thomas, fervently. “ She has saved 
me too, even if she refuses to have anything more to do with 
me. How shall I tell her everything ? Since I have had it 
over with my father and Stopper, I feel as if I were white- 
washed, and to have to tell her what a sepulchre I am is dread- 
ful — and she so white outside and in ! ” 

“Yes, it’s hard to do, my boy, but it must be done.” 

“ I would do it — I would insist upon it, even if she begged 
me not, Mr. Fuller. If she were to say that she would love 
me all the same, and I needn’t say a word about the past, for 
it was all over now, I would yet beg her to endure the ugly 
story for my sake, that I might hear my final absolution from 
her lips.” 

“ That’s right,” said Mr. Fuller. 

They were now seated at dinner, and nothing more of im- 
portance to our history was said until that was over. Then they 
returned to the study, and, as soon as he had closed the door, 
Mr. Fuller said : 

“ But now, Worboise, it is time that I should talk to you a 
little more about yourself. There is only One that can aosolve 
you in the grand sense of the word. H God himself were to 
say to you, ‘ Let by-gones be by-gones, nothing more shall be 
said about them ’ — if he only said that, it would be a poor 
thing to meet our human need. But he is infinitely kinder 
than that. He says, ‘ I, even I am he that taketh away thine 
iniquities.’ He alone can make us clean — put our heart so 
right that nothing of this kind will happen again — make us 
simple God-loving, man-loving creatures, as much afraid of 
harboring an unjust thought of our neighbors as of stealing 
that which is his ; as much afraid of pride and self-confidence 
as of saying with the fool, ‘ There is no God ; ’ as far from 
distrusting God for the morrow, as from committing suicide. 
We cannot serve God and Mammon. Hence the constant 
struggle and discomfort in the minds of even good men. They 
would, without knowing what they are doing, combine a little 


346 


Guild Court 


Mammon-worship with the service of the God they love. But 
that cannot be. The Spirit of God will ever and always be at 
strife with Mammon, and in proportion as that spirit is vic- 
torious, is peace growing in the man. You must give your- 
self up to the obedience of his Son entirely and utterly, leaving 
your salvation to him, troubling yourself nothing about that, 
but ever seeking to see things as he sees them, and to do 
things as he would have them done. And for this purpose 
you must study your New Testament in particular, that you 
see the glory of God in the face of Christ J esus ; that receiving 
him as your master, your teacher, your saviour, you may open 
your heart to the entrance of his spirit, the mind that was in 
him, that so he may save you. Every word of his, if you will 
but try to obey it, you will find precious beyond words to say. 
And he has promised without reserve the Holy Spirit of God 
to them that ask it. The only salvation is in being filled with 
the Spirit of God, the mind of Christ.’’ 

I believe you, sir, though I cannot quite see into all you 
say. All I can say is, that I w^ant to be good henceforth. 
Pray for me, sir, if you think there is any good in one man 
praying for another.” 

‘‘ I do, indeed — just in proportion to the love that is in it. 
I cannot exactly tell how this should be ; but if we believe 
that the figure St. Paul uses about our all being members of 
one body has any true, deep meaning in it, we shall have just 
a glimmering of how it can be so. Come, then, we will kneel 
together, and I will pray with you.” 

Thomas felt more solemn by far than he had ever felt in his 
life when he rose from that prayer. 

‘'Now,” said Mr. Fuller, “ go and see your friends. When 
you think of it, my boy,” he added, after a pause, during 
which he held Tonrs hand in a warm grasp, “you will see 
how God has been looking after you, giving you friend after 
friend of such different sorts to make up for the want of a 
father, and so driving you home at last, home to himself. Ho 
had to drive you ; but he will lead you now. You will be 
home by half-past six or seven ? ” 

Thomas assented. He could not speak. He could only 
return the grasp of Mr. Fuller’s hand. Then he took his cap 
and went. 

It is needless to give any detailed account of Thomas’s 
meeting with the Pottses. He did not see the captain, wh^ 
had gone down to his brig. Mrs. Potts (and Bessie too, after 
a fashion) welcomed him heartily ; but Mr. Potts was a little 


Thomas and his Mother, 


347 


aggrieved that he would drink nothing but a glass of bitter 
ale. He had the watch safe, and brought it out gladly when 
Thomas produced his check. 

Jini Salter dropped in at the last moment. He had heard 
the night before that Thomas was restored to society and was 
expected to call at the Mermaid some time that day. So he 
had been in or looking in a dozen times since the morning. 
When he saw Tom, who was just taking his leave, he came up 
to him, holding out his hand, but speaking as v/ith a sense of 
wrong. 

liow de do, guv’nor ? Who’d ha’ thought to see you here ! 
Ain’t you got ne’er another sixpence to put a name upon it ? 
You’re fond o’ sixpences, yoic are, guv’nor.” 

What do you mean, Jim ?” asked Thomas, in much bewild- 
erment. 

To think o’ treatin’ a man and a brother as you’ve treated 
me, after I’d been and devoted my life, leastways a good part 
of it, to save you from the police ! Four and sixpence ! ’’ 

Still bewildered, Thomas appealed to Mr. Potts, whose face 
looked as like a caricature of the moon as ever, although he 
had just worked out a very neat little problem in diplomacy. 

‘^It’s my fault, Mr. Worboise,” he responded in his usual 
voice, which seemed to come from a throat lined with the 
insides of dates. I forgot to tell you, sir, that, that — Don’t 
you see, Jim, you fool I” he said, changing the object of his 
address abruptly — you wouldn’t have liked to rob a gentle- 
man like that by takin’ of half a suvering for loafin’ about for 
a day with him when he was hard up. Put as he’s come by 
his own again, why there’s no use in keeping it from you any 
longer. So there’s your five and sixpence. Put it’s a devil of 
a shame. Go out of my house.” 

Whew ! ” whistled Jim Salter. Two words to that, guv’nor 
o’ the Marmaid. You’ve been and kep’ me all this many a day 
out of my inheritance, as they say at the Britanuary. What 
do you say to that, sir ? What do you think o’ yerself, sir ? 
I wait a reply, as the butcher said to the pig.” 

While he spoke, Jim pocketed the money. Eeceiving no 
reply except a sniff of Mr. Potts’s red nose, he broke out again, 
more briefly : 

I tell ’eo what, guv’nor of the Marmaid, I donH go out o’ 
your house till I’ve put a name upon it.” 

Quite defeated and rather dejected, Mr. Potts took down ms 
best brandy, and poured out a bumper. 

Jim tossed it off, and set down the glass. Then, and not 


348 


Guild Court 


till then, lie turned to Thomas, who had been looking on, half 
Texed with Mr. Potts, and half amused with Jim. 

‘^Well, I am glad, Mr. Wurbus, as you’ve turned out a 
honest man arter all. I assure you, sir, at one time, and that 
not much farther off than that ’ere glass o’ rum — ” 

Brandy, you loafing rascal ! the more’s the pity,” said 
Mr. Potts. 

Than that ’ere glass o’ rum,” repeated Jim, I had my 
doubts. I wasn’t so sure of it, as the fox was o’ the goose 
when he had his neck atwixt his teeth.” 

So saying, and without another word, Jim Salter turned 
and left the Mermaid. Jim was one of those who seem to 
have an especial organ for the sense of wrong, from which 
organ no amount or kind of explanation can ever remove an 
impression. They prefer to cherish it. Their very acknowl- 
edgments of error are uttered in a tone that proves they con- 
sider the necessity of making them only in the light of accu- 
mulated injury. 


CHAPTER L. 

THOMAS AND LUCY. 

When Lucy came home the night before, she found her 
grandmother sitting by the fire, gazing reproachfully at the 
coals. The poor woman had not yet reconciled herself to her 
altered position. Widdles was in vain attempting to attract 
her attention ; but, not being gifted with speech like his gray 
brother in the next cage to his— whose morals, by the way, 
were considerably reformed, thanks to his master’s judicious 
treatment of him— he had but few modes of bringing his 
wishes to bear at a distance. He could only rattle his beak on 
the bars of his cage, and give a rending shriek. 

The iinmediate occasion of her present mood was Thomas’s 
note, which was over her head on the mantel-piece. Notes had 
occasionally passed between him and Lucy, and she knew the 
handwriting. She regarded him with the same feelings with 
which she regarded his father, but she knew that Lucy did 
not share in these feelings. And forgetting that she was now 
under Lucy’s protection, she was actually vowing with herself 
at the moment Lucy entered that if she had one word of other 


349 


Thomas and Lucy. 

than repudiation to say to Thomas, she would turn her out of 
the house. She was not going to encourage such lack of prin- 
ciple. She gaye her no greeting, therefore, when she entered ; 
but Lucy, whose quick eye caught sight of the note at once, 
did not miss it. She took the note with a trembling hand, and 
hurried from the room. Then Mrs. Boxall burst into a blaze. 

Where are you off to now, you minx ? ” she said. 

I am going to put my bonnet off, grannie,” answered 
Lucy, understanding well enough, and waiting no farther 
parley. 

She could hardly open the note, which was fastened with a 
wafer, her hands trembled so much. Before she had read it 
through she fell on her knees, and thus, like Hezekiah, 
spread it before the Lord,” and finished it so. 

And now, indeed, was her captivity turned. She had noth- 
ing to say but Thank God ! ” she had nothing to do but 
weep. True, she was a little troubled that she could not re- 
ply : but when she made inquiry about the messenger, to see 
if she could learn anything of where Tom was to be found, 
Mr. Kitely, who, I have said, returned home immediately after 
Mr. Fuller dismissed him (though in his anxiety he went back 
and loitered about the church door), told her that young 
Worboise was at that moment with Mr. Fuller in his vestry. 
He did not tell her how he came to be there. Nothing, there- 
fore, remained for her but to be patient, and wait for what 
would come next. And the next thing was a note from Mr. 
Fuller, telling her that Thomas was at his house, bidding her 
be of good cheer, and saying that she should hear from him 
again to-morrow. She did not sleep much that night. 

But she had a good deal to bear from her grandmother be- 
fore she reached the haven of bed. First of all, she insisted 
on knowing what the young villain had written to her about. 
How dared he ? — and so on. Lucy tried to pacify her, and 
said she would tell her about it afterward. Then she broke 
out upon herself, saying she kiiew it was nothing to Lucy 
what became of her. No doubt she would be glad enough to 
make her own terms, marry her grandmother’s money, and 
turn her out of doors. But if she dared to say one word to 
the rascal after the way he had behaved to her, one house 
should not hold them both, and that she told her. But it is 
ungracious work recording the spiteful utterances of an ill- 
used woman. They did not go very deep into Lucy, for she 
knew her grandmother by this time. Also her hope for her- 
self was large enough to include her grandmother. 


350 


Guild Court 


And soon as Thomas left him in the morning, Mr. Fuller 
wrote again — only to say that he would call upon her in the 
evening. He did not think it necessary to ask her to be at 
home ; nor did he tell her anything of Tom’s story. He 
thought it best to leave that to himself. Lucy was strongly 
tempted to send excuses to her pupils that morning and re- 
main at home, in case Thomas might come. But she conclu- 
ded that she ought to do her work, and leave possibilities 
where alone they were determined. So she went and gave her 
lessons with as much care as usual, and more energy. 

When she got home she found that Mr. Fuller had been 
there, but had left a message that he would call again. He 
was so delighted with tlie result of his efforts with Tom, that 
he could not wait till the evening. Still, he had no intention 
of taking the office of a mediator between them. That, he 
felt, would be to intrude for the sake of making himself of im- 
portance ; and he had learned that one of the virtues of holy 
and true service is to get out of the way as soon as pos- 
sible. 

About six o’clock he went again, and was shown into the 
bookseller’s back parlor, where he found both Lucy and her 
grandmother. 

Will you come out with me. Miss Burton, for an hour or 
so ? ” he said. 

I wonder at you, Mr. Fuller,” interposed Mrs. Boxall — ^^a 
clergyman, too ! ” 

It is a great pity that people should so little restrain them- 
selves when they are most capable of doing so, that when they 
are old, excitement should make them act like the fools that 
they are not. 

Mr. Fuller was considerably astonished, but did not lose his 
self-possession. 

Surely you are not afraid to trust her with me, Mrs. Box- 
all ? ” he said, half meiTily. 

I don’t know that, sir. I hear of very strange goings-on 
at your church. Service every day, the church always open, 
and all that I As if folks had nothing to do but say their 
prayers.” 

I don’t think you would talk like that, Mrs. Boxall,” said 
Mr. Fuller, with no less point that he said it pleasantly, if 
vou had been saying your prayers lately.” 

You have nothing to do with my prayers, sir.” 

Nor you with my church, Mrs. Boxall. But come— -don’t 
let us quarrel. I don’t wonder at your being put out some- 


351 


Thcmas and iMcy, 

times, Fm sure * youVe had so much to yex you. But it 
hasn’t been Lucy’s fault ; and I’m sure I would gladly give 
you your rights if I could.” 

don’t doubt it, sir,” said the old lady, mollified. Don’t 
be long, Lucy. And don’t let that young limb of Satan talk 
you over. Mind what I say to you.” 

Not knowing how to answer, without offending her grand- 
mother, Lucy only made haste to get her bonnet and cloak. 
Mr. Fuller took her straight to his own house. The grimy, 
unlovely streets were, to Lucy’s enlightened eyes, full of a 
strange, beautiful mystery, as she walked along leaning on her 
friend’s arm. She asked him no questions, content to be led 
toward what was awaiting her. It was a dark and cloudy 
night, but a cool west wind, that to her feelings was full of 
spring, came down Bagot Street, blowing away the winter and 
all its miseries. A new time of hope was at hand. Away with 
it went all thought of Thomas’s past behavior. He was repent- 
ant. The prodigal had turned to go home, and she would 
walk with him and help his homeward steps. She loved him, 
and would love him more than ever. If there was more joy 
in heaven over one such than over ninety-and-nine who were 
not such, why not more joy in her soul ? Her heart beat so 
violently as she crossed Mr. Fuller’s threshold, that she could 
hardly breathe. He took her into the sitting-room, where a 
most friendly fire was blazing, and left her. 

Still she had asked no questions. She knew that she was 
going to see Thomas. Whether he was in the house or not, 
she did not know. She hardly cared. She could sit there, 
she thought, for years waiting for him ; but every ring of the 
door-bell made her start and tremble. There were so many 
rings that her heart had hardly time to ^uiet itself a little 
from one before another set it beating again worse than ever. 
At length there came a longer pause, and she fell into a 
dreamy study of the fire. The door opened at length, and she 
thought it was Mr. Fuller, and, not wishing to show any dis- 
quietude, sat still. A moment more, and Thomas was kneel- 
ing at her feet. He had good cause to kneel. He did not 
offer to touch her. He only said, in a choked voice, ^^Lucy,” 
and bowed his head before her. She put her hands on the 
bowed head before lier, drew it softly on her knees, gave one 
long, gentle, but irrepressible wail like a child, and burst into 
a quiet passion of tears. Thomas drew his liead from her 
hands, sank on the floor, and lay sobbing, and kissing her feet. 
She could not move to make him cease. But when she recov- 


352 


GuiLl Court 


ered herself a little, after a measureless time to both of them, 
she stopped, jDut her hands round upon his face, and drew him 
uj)ward. He rose, but only to his knees. 

^^Lucy, Lucy,^^ he sobbed, ^^will you forgive me 

He could not say more yet. She bent forward and kissed 
his forehead. 

have been very wicked. I will tell you all about it — 
everything.” 

‘‘No, no, Thomas. Only love me.” 

“ I love you — oli ! I love you with all my heart and soul. 
I don’t deserve to be allowed to love one of your hands ; but if 
you will only let me love you I will be your slave forever. I 
don’t even ask you to love me one little bit. If you will only 
let me love you ! ” 

“ Thomas,” said Lucy, slowly, and struggling with her sobs, 
“ my heart is so full of love and gladness that it is like to 
break. I can’t speak.” 

By degrees they grew calmer, but Thomas could not rest till 
she knew all. 

“ Lucy,” he said, “ I can’t be sure that all you give me is 
really mine till I’ve told you everything. Perhaps you won’t 
love me — not so much — when you know all. So I must tell 
you.” 

“ I don’t care what it is, Thomas, for I am sure you v^on’t 
again.” 

“/ will said Thomas, solemnly. “But please, Lucy 
darling, listen to me — ^for my sake, not for your own, for it 
will hurt you so.” 

“If it will make you easier, Thomas, tell me eyery thing.” 

“ I will — I will. I will hide nothing.” 

And Thomas did tell her everything. But Lucy cried so 
much, that when he came to the part describing his adventures 
in London after he took the money, he felt greatly tempted, 
and yielded to the temptation, to try to give her the comical 
side as well. And at the very first hint of fun in the descrip- 
tion he gave of Jim Salter, Lucy burst into such a fit of laugh- 
ter, that Thomas was quite frightened, for it seemed as if she 
would never stop. So that between the laughing and crying 
Thomas felt like Christian between the quagmire and the pit- 
falls, and was afraid to say anything. But at length the story 
was told ; and how Lucy did, besides laughing and crying, at 
every new turn of the story — to show my reader my confidence 
in him I leave all that to his imagination, assuring him only 
that it was all right between them. My women readers will 


Thmtas and Lucy, 353 

not require eyen tliis amount of information, for tliey liaye the 
gift of understanding without being told. 

When he came to the point of his father offering to provide 
for them if he would give up Lucy, he hesitated, and said : 

Ought I to have done it, Lucy, for your sake 

For my sake, Tom ! If you had said for granny’s — But 
I know her well enough to he absolutely certain that she 
would starve rather than accept a penny from him, except as 
her right. Besides, I can make more money in a year than he 
would give her, I am pretty sure. So if you will keep me, 
Tom, I will keep her.” 

Here Lucy discovered that she had said something very im- 
proper, and hid her face in her hands. But a knock came at 
the door, and then both felt so shy that neither dared to say. 
Come in. Therefore Mr. Fuller put his head in without being 
told, and said : 

Have you two young people made it up yet ?” 

Have we, Tom ? ” said Lucy. 

I don’t know,” said Tom. What was it, sir ?” 

Mr. Fuller laughed heartily, came near, put a hand on the 
head of each, and said : 

God bless you. I too am glad at my very heart. JSTow 
you must come to supper.” 

But at supper, which the good man had actually cleared his 
table to have in the study that he might not disturb them so 
soon, Thomas had a good many questions to ask. And he kept 
on asking, for he wanted to understand the state of the case 
between Mrs. Boxall and his father. All at once, at one reply, 
he Jumped from his seat, looking very strange. 

I must be off, Lucy. You won’t hear from me for a day 
or two. Good-bye, Mr. Fuller. I haven’t time for a word,” 
he said, pulling out his watch. ‘^Something may be done 
yet. It may all come to nothing. Don’t ask me any questions. 
I may save months.” 

He rushed from the room, and left Mr. Fuller and Lucy 
staring at each other. Mr. Fuller started up a moment after 
and ran to the door, but only to hear the outer door bang, and 
Thomas shout — Cab ahoy ! ” in the street. So there was 
nothing for it but to take Lucy home again. He left her at 
Mr Kitely’s door. 

Well, miss, what have you been about ?” said her grand- 
mother. . 

‘Slaving a long talk with Thomas, grannie,” answered 
Lucy. 


23 


35i 


Guild Court 


‘^Yoii liayel” exclaimed Mrs. Boxall, who had ppected 
nothing else, rising slowly from her seat with the air of one 
about to pronounce a solemn malediction. 

Yes, grannie ; but he knew nothing till this very night of 
the way his father has behaved to us.” 

He made you believe that, did he ? ” 

‘^Yes, grannie.” 

Then youTe a fool. He didn’t know, did he ? Then 
you’ll never see him again. He comes of a breed bad enough 
to believe anything of. You give him up, or I give you up.” 

Yo, I won’t, grannie,” said Lucy, smiling in her face. 

You or I leave this house, then.” 

/ won’t, grannie.” 

Then I will” 

^^Very well, grannie,” answered Lucy, putting her arms 
round her, and kissing her. Shall I fetch your bonnet ? ” 
Grannie vouchsafed no reply, but took her candle and went 
— up to bed. 


CHAPTER LI. 

JACK OF THE KIKGPO. 

My reader will know better than Lucy or Mr. Fuller what 
Thomas was after. Having only a hope, he did not like to say 
much, and therefore, as well as that he might not lose the 
chance of a night train, he hurried away. The first thing he 
did was to drive to a certain watchmaker’s, to raise money if 
he could, once more on his watch and on Lucy’s ring, which I 
need not say remained in his possession. But the shop was 
shut. Then he drove to the Mermaid, and came upon Cap- 
tain Smith as he was emptying his tumbler of grog prepara- 
tory fco going to bed. 

‘^Isay, captain, you must let Robins off this voyage. I 
want him to go to Newcastle with me.” 

‘^What’s up now ? Ain’t he going to Newcastle ? And 
you can go with him if you like.” 

I want him at once. It’s of the greatest importance.” 

You won’t find him to-night, I can tell you. You’d bet- 
ter sit down and have something, and tell us all about it.” 

When Thomas thought, he saw that nothing could be done 


355 


Lucyy and Mattie, and Poppie. 

till next day. Without money, without Robins, without a 
train in all probability, he was helpless. Therefore he sat 
down and told the captain what he was after, namely, to find 
Robins’s friend Jack, whose surname he did not know, and see 
what evidence he could give upon the question of the order of 
decease in the family of Richard Boxall. He explained the 
point to the captain, who saw at once that Robins’s services 
must be dispensed with for this voyage — except, indeed, he re- 
turned before they weighed anchor again, which was possible 
enough. When Tom told him what he had heard Jack say 
about little Julia, the captain, pondering it over, gave it as his 
judgment that Jack, being the only one saved, and the child 
being with him till she died, there was a probability almost of 
his being able to prove that she outlived the rest. At all 
events, he said, no time must be lost in finding this Jack. 

Mr. Potts having joined them, they sat talking it over a 
long time. At last Tom said : 

‘‘ There’s one thing, I shall be more easy when I’ve told 
you: that lawyer is my father.” 

God bless my soul 1 ” said Mr. Potts, while Captain 
Smith said something decidedly different. ^‘So you’ll oblige 
me,” Tom went on, if you’ll say nothing very hard of him, 
for I hope he will live to be horribly ashamed of himself.” 

Here’s long life to him ! ” said Captain Smith. 

And no success this bout ! ” added Mr. Potts. 

Amen to both, and thank you,” said Tom. 

Mrs. Potts would have got the same bed ready for him that 
he had had before, but as the captain was staying all night, 
Tom insisted on sleeping on the sofa. He wanted to be off to 
find Robins the first thing in the morning. It was, however, 
agreed that the captain should go and send Robins, while 
Thomas went to get his money. In a few hours Robins and 
he were off for Newcastle. 


CHAPTER LII. 

LUCY, AND MATTIE, AND POPPIE. 

The Saturday following Tom’s departure Lucy had a whole 
holiday, and she resolved to enjoy it. ^ Not much resolii- 
tion was necessary for that j for everything now was bcauti^ 


856 


Guild Court, 


ful, and not even her grannie^s fits of ill-humor could destroy 
her serenity. The old woman had, however, her better mo- 
ments, in which she would blame her other self for her un- 
kindness to her darling ; only that repentance was forgotten 
the moment the fit came again. The saddest thing in the 
whole affair was to see how the prospect of wealth, and the 
loss of that prospect, worked for the temperamental ruin of 
the otherwise worthy old woman. Her goodness had had little 
foundation in principle ; therefore, when the fioods came and 
the winds blew, it could not stand against them. Of course 
prosperity must be better for some people, so far as we can 
see, for they have it ; and adversity for others, for they have 
it ; but I suspect that each must have a fitting share of both; 
and no disposition, however good, can be regarded as tem- 
pered, and tried, and weather-proof, till it has had a trial of 
some proportion of both. I am not sure that both are abso- 
lutely necessary to all ; I only say that we cannot be certain of 
the character till we have seen it outstand both. The last 
thing Mrs. Boxall said to Lucy as she went out that morning, 
rousing herself from a dark-hued reverie over the fire, was : 

‘^Lucy, if you marry that man I’ll go to the workhouse.” 

But they won’t take you in, grannie, when you’ve got a 
granddaughter to work for you.” 

won’t take a farthing of my own property but as my own 
right.” 

‘^Thomas won’t have a farthing of it to offer you, grannie, 
I’m afraid. He quarreled with his father just about that, and 
he’s turned him out.” 

Then I must go to the workhouse.” 

And I’ll bring you packets of tea and snuff, as they do for 
the old goodies in the dusters, grannie,” said Lucy, merrily. 

^^Go along with you. You never had any heart but for 
your beaux.” 

‘‘There’s a little left for you yet, dear grannie. And for 
beaux, you know as well as I do that I never had but one.” 

So saying, she ran away, and up the court to Mr. Spelt’s 
shop. 

“Where’s Poppie, Mr. Spelt ?” she asked. 

“In the house, I believe, miss.” 

“ Will you let her come with me to the Zoological Gardens 
to-day ?” 

“ ‘With all my heart, miss. Shall I get down, and run up 
and tell her?” 

“No, thank you ; on no account. I’ll go up myself.” 


357 


LucTjy aiid Matticy and Popple, 

She found Poppie actually washing cups and saucers, with 
her sleeves tucked up, and looking not merely a very lovely, 
but a very orderly maiden. ISTo doubt she was very odd still, 
and would be to the end of her days. What she would do 
when she was too old (which would not be till she was too 
frail) to scud, was inconceivable. But with all such good 
influences around her — her father, Mattie, Mr. Fuller, Lucy 
Burton — it was no wonder that the real woman in her should 
have begun to grow, and, having begun, should promise well 
for what was yet to be. There is scarcely anything more mar- 
velous in the appearance of simple womanliness under such 
circumstances in the child of the streets, than there is in its 
existence in the lady who has outgrown the ordinarily evil influ- 
ences of the nursery, the school-room, and the boarding-school. 
Still, I must confess that anything like other people might 
well be a little startling to one who had known Poppie a year 
before and had not seen her since. Lucy had had a great deal 
to do with the change ; for she had been giving her regular 
lessons with Mattie for the last few months. The difficulty 
was, to got Poppie to open her mental eyes to any information 
that did not come by the sight of her bodily eyes. The con- 
veyance of facts to her, not to say of thoughts or feelings, by 
words, except in regard to things she was quite used to, was 
almost an impossibility. For a long time she only stared and 
looked around her now and then, as if she would be so glad to 
scud if she dared. But she loved Lucy, who watched long and 
anxiously for some sign of dawning interest. It came at last. 
Kor let my reader suspect the smallest atom of satire in her 
most innocent remark : ‘‘Was Jesus a man ? I s’posed he wor 
a clergyman ! ” But having once got a glimpse of light, her 
eyes, if they opened slowly, strengthened rapidly. ^ Her acqui- 
sition was not great, that is, but she learned to think with an 
amount of reality which showed that, while she retained many 
of the defects of childhood, she retained also some of its most 
valuable characteristics. 

The contrast with Mattie was very remarkable. Poppie was 
older than Mattie, I have said ; but while Mattie talked like 
an old woman, Poppie talked like a baby. The remarks of 
each formed a strange opposition, both in manner and form, 
to her appearance, as far as bedily growth was concerned. 
But the faces were consistent with the words. There was, 
however, a very perceptible process of what may be called a 
double endosmose and exosmose going on between them. Pop- 
pie was getting wiser, and Mattie was getting merrier. Some- 


358 


Guild Court, 


times, to the delight of Mr. Kitely, they would be heard frol- 
icking about his house like kittens. Such a burst, however, 
would seldom last long ; for Mrs. Boxall resented it as unfeel- 
ing toward her misfortunes, and generally put a stop to it. 
This did not please Mr. Kitely at all. It was, in fact, the 
only thing that he found annoying in the presence of Mrs. 
Boxall in his house. But he felt such a kindly pity for the 
old woman that he took no notice of it, and intimated to Mat- 
tie that it was better to give up to her. 

The old lady is cranky to-day. She don’t feel comfortable 
in her inside,” he would say ; and Mattie would repeat the re- 
mark to Poppie, as if it were her own. There was one word in 
it, however, which, among others of her vocabulary, making 
the antique formality of her speech so much the more ludic- 
rous, she could not pronounce. 

^^The old lady don’t feel over comfibittle in her inside to- 
day. We must drop it, or she’ll be worse,” Mattie would 
gravely remark to Poppie, and the tumult would be heard no 
more that day, or at least for an hour, when, if they were so 
long together, it might break out again. 

Every now and then some strange explosion of Arab habits 
or. ways of thinking would shock Mattie ; but from seeing that 
it did not shock Miss Burton so much, she became, by degrees, 
considerably less of a little prig. Childhood revived in her 
more and more. 

^^Will you come with me to-day, Poppie, to see the wild 
beasts ? ” said Lucy. 

But they’ll eat us, won’t they ?” 

Oh, no, child. What put that into your head ? ” 

‘^1 thought they always did.” 

^^They always would if they could. But they can’t.” 

^^Do they pull their teeth out, then ?” 

^^You come and see. I’ll take care of you.” 

Is Mattie going ?” 

Yes.” 

^^Then I’ll come.” 

She threw down the saucer she was washing, dried her hands 
in her apron, and stood ready to follow. 

‘^Ko, no, Poppie; that won’t do. You must finish wash- 
ing up and drying your breakfast things. Then you must put 
on your cloak and hat, and make yourself look nice and tidy, 
before I can take you.” 

If it’s only the beasts, miss I They ain’t very particular, 
I guess.” 


Lucy, and Mattie^ and Poppie, 359 

Was this the old word of Chaucer indigenous, or a slip from 
the American slip ? 

“ It’s not for the beasts, but because you ought always to be 
tidy. There will be people there, of course, and it’s disrespect- 
ful to other people to be untidy.” 

‘‘I didn’t know, miss. Would they give I to the bears ? ” 
Poppie, you’re a goose. Come along. Make haste.” 

The children had never seen any but domestic animals be- 
fore, and their wonder and pleasure in these strange new forms 
of life were boundless. Mattie caught the explosive affection 
from Poppie, and Lucy had her reward in the outbursts of 
interest, as varied in kind as the animals themselves, that rose 
on each side of her. The differences, too, between the chil- 
dren were very notable. Poppie shrieked with laughter at 
the monkeys ; Mattie turned away, pale with dislike. Lucy 
overcame her own feelings in the matter for Poppie’s sake, but 
found that Mattie had disappeared. She was standing out- 
side the door, waiting for them. 

I can’t make it out,” she said, putting her hand into 
Lucy’s. 

What can’t you make out, Mattie ? ” 

I can’t make out why God made monkeys.” Now, this 
was a question that might well puzzle Mattie. Indeed, Lucy 
had no answer to give her. 1 dare say Mr. Fuller might have 
had something to say on the subject, but Lucy could only reply, 
^^I don’t know, my dear ; ” for she did not fancy it a part of 
a teacher’s duty to tell lies, pretending acquaintance with 
what she did not know anything about. Poppie had no diffi- 
culty about the monkeys ; but the lions and tigers, and all the 
tearing creatures were a horror to her ; and if she did not put 
the same question as Mattie had put about the monkeys, it 
was only because she had not yet felt any need for understand- 
ing the creation of God in relation to him. In other words, 
she had not yet begun to construct her little individual scheme 
of the universe, which, sooner or later, must, I presume, be 
felt by every one as an indispensable necessity. Mr. Fuller 
would have acknowledged the monkeys as to him a far more 
important difficulty than the ferocious animals, and would 
probably have accepted the swine as a greater perplexity than 
either. Perhaps the readiest answer— I say readiest only, but 
I would not use the word answer at all, except it involved the 
elements of solution — for Lucy to give would have been : 

‘‘ They disgust you, you say, Mattie ? Then that is what 
God made them for.” 


360 Guild Court 

A most incomplete, but most true and important reply— and 
the readiest, 

Poppie shouted with delight to see the seals tumble into the 
water, dive deep, then turn on their backs and look up at her. 
But their large, round, yet pathetic, dog-like eyes, fixed upon 
her, made the tears come in Mattie’s eyes, as they dreamed up 
and down and athwart the water-deeps with such a gentle 
power as destroyed all notion of force to be met or force to 
overcome. 

Another instance or two, to show the difierence between the 
children, and we shall return to the business of my story. 
There are, or were then, two or three little animals in a cage 
— I forget the name of them : they believe in somersaults — 
that the main object of life is to run round and round, doing 
the same thing with decency and order — that is, turning heels 
over head every time they arrive at a certain spot. 

With these pretty enough, and more than comical enough 
creatures, Poppie v/as exquisitely delighted. She laughed and 
clapped her hands and shouted : 

Now, now ! Do it again. There you are ! Heels over 
head. All right, little one ! Pound you go. Now, now I 
There you are ! ” and so on. 

Mattie turned away, saying only to Lucy : 

They don’t make anything of it. They’re no farther on 
at night than they were in the morning. I hate roundabouts. 
Poor little things I ” 

They came to the camel’s house, and, with other children, 
they ^ot upon his back. After a short and not over comfort- 
able ride, they got down again. Poppie took hold of Lucy’s 
sleeve, and, with solemn face, asked : 

Is it alive, miss ? ” 

How can you ask such a question, Poppie ? ” 

I only wanted to know if it was alive.” 

She was not sure that he did not go by machinery. Mattie 
gazed at her with compassionate superiority, and said : 

Poppie, I should like to hear what you tell Mr. Spelt when 
you get home. You are ignorant.” 

At this Poppie only grinned. She was not in the least 
ofiended. She even, I dare say, felt some of the same admira- 
tion for herself that one feels for an odd plaything. 

Lucy’s private share of the day’s enjoyment lay outside the 
gardens. There the buds were bursting everywhere. Out of 
the black bark, all begrimed with London smoke and London 
dirt, flowed the purest green. Verily there is One that can 


361 


Lucy, and Mattie, and Poppie» 

bring a clean thing out of an unclean. Reviving nature was 
all in harmony with Lucy’s feelings this day. It was the most 
simply happy day she had ever had. The gentle wind with its 
cold and its soft streaks fading and reviving, tlie blue sky with 
its few flying undefined masses of whiteness, the shadow of green 
all around — for when she looked through the trees, it was like 
looking through a thin green cloud or shadow— the gay songs 
of the birds, each of which, unlike the mocking-bird within, 
was content to sing his own song — a poor thing, it might be, 
but his own — his notion of the secret of things, of the well- 
being of the universe — all combined in one harmony with her 
own world inside, and made her more happy than she had ever 
been before, even in a dream. 

She was walking southward through the Park, for she 
wanted to take the two children to see Mrs. Morgenstern. 
They were frolicking about her, running hither and thither, 
returning at frequent intervals to claim each one of her hands, 
when she saw Mr. Sargent coming toward her. She would not 
have avoided him if she could, for her heart was so gay that it 
was strong as well. He lifted his hat. She offered her hand. 
He took it, saying : 

This is more than I deserve. Miss Burton, after the abom- 
inable way I behaved to you last time I saw you. I see you 
have forgiven me. But I dare hardly accept your forgiveness. 
It is so much more than I deserve.” 

I know what it is to suffer, Mr. Sargent, and there is no 
excuse I could not make for you. Perhaps the best proof I 
can give that I wish to forget all that passed on that dreadful 
evening is to be quite open with you still. I have seen Mr. 
Worboise since then,” she went on, regardless of her own 
blushes. He had been led astray, but not so much as you 
thought. He brought me back the ring you mentioned. ” 

If Mr. Sargent did not place much confidence in the reforma- 
tion Lucy hinted at, it is not very surprising. No doubt the 
fact would destroy any possibly lingering hope he yet cher- 
ished, but this was not all ; ho was quite justified in regarding 
with great distrust any such change as her words implied. He 
had known, even in his own comparatively limited experience, 
so many cases of a man’s having, to all appearance, entirely 
abjured his wicked ways for the sake of a woman, only to re- 
turn, after marriage, like the sow that was washed, to his wal- 
lowing in the mire, that his whole soul shrunk from the idea 
of such an innocent creature falling a prey to her confidence in 
such a man as Worboise most probably was. There was noth- 


362 


Guild Court, 


ing to be said at present on the subject, however, and after a 
few more words they parted — Lucy, to pursue her dream of 
delight — Mr. Sargent, lawyer-like, to make further inquiry. 


CHAPTER LIIL 

MOLKEN ON THE SCENT. 

Now it had so happened that Mr. Molken had caught sight 
of Tom as he returned from his visit to his mother, and had 
seen him go into Mr. Fuller’s house. His sailor’s dress piqued 
the curiosity which he naturally felt with regard to him ; and 
as, besides, the rascal fed upon secrets, gave him hope of still 
making something out of him if he could but get him again in 
his power. Therefore he watched the house with much pa- 
tience, saw Mr. Fuller go out and return ag-ain with Lucy, 
whom he knew by sight, and gave to the phenomenon what 
interpretation his vile nature was capable of, concluding that 
Tom was in want of money — as he himself generally was — aud 
would get something out of Lucy before they parted : he had 
stored the fact of the ring in his usual receptacle for such 
facts. Besides, he had been in communication with a lawyer, 
for he could see well enough that Mr. Sargent belonged to that 
profession, concerning this very Thomas Worboise : perhaps 
he was wanted, and if so, why should not he reap what 
benefit might be reaped from aiding in his capture ? With all 
these grounds for hope, he was able to persevere in watching 
the house till Thomas came out alone evidently in great haste 
and excitement. He accosted him then as he hurried past, but 
Tom, to whom the sight of him recalled no cherished 
memories, and who did not feel that he owed him any grati- 
tude for favors received, felt that it would be the readiest and 
surest mode of procedure to cut him at once, and did so, 
although he could not prevent Molken from seeing that he 
knew him, and did not choose to know him. This added im- 
measurably to Molken’s determination, for now his feelings as 
a gentleman were enlisted on the same side. He was too 
prudent, if not too cowardly, to ask him what he meant ; nor 
would that mode have served his turn ; it fitted his nature and 
character better to lurk and watch. When Tom got into a 


Molken on the Scent. 


363 


cab, Molken therefore got into another, and gave the driver 
directions to keep Tom’s in sight, but not to follow so closely 
as to occasion suspicion. He ran him to earth at the Mer- 
maid. There he peeped in at the door, and finding that he 
must have gone into the house, became more and more satisfied 
that he was after something or other which he wanted to keep 
dark — something fitted, in fact, for Molken to do himself, or 
to turn to his advantage if done by another. He entered the 
bar, called for a glass of hot gin and water, and got into con- 
versation with Mr. Potts. The landlord of the Mermaid, how- 
ever, although a man of slow mental processes, had instinct 
enough, and experience more than enough, to dislike the look 
of Molken. He gave him, therefore, such short answers as 
especially suited his own style, refused to be drawn into con- 
versation, and persisted in regarding him merely as the 
purchaser of a glass of gin and water, hot with. On such an 
occasion Mr. Potts’s surly grandeur could be surpassed by no 
other bar-keeper in England. But this caution completed 
Molken’s conviction that Thomas was about something dark, 
and that the landlord of the Mermaid was in it, too ; the more 
conclusively when, having, by way of experiment, mentioned 
Thomas’s name as known to Mr. Potts, the latter cunningly 
repudiated all knowledge of the party.” Molken therefore 
left the house, and after doubling a little, betook himself to a 
coffee-shop opposite, whence he could see the door of the 
Mermaid from the window, and by a proper use of shillings, 
obtained leave to pass as much of the night there as he pleased. 
He thought he saw Thomas, with a light in his hand, draw 
down the dingy blind of an upper window ; and concluding 
that he had gone to bed, Molken threw himself on one of the 
seats, and slept till daylight, when he resumed his watch. At 
length he saw him come out with another man in the dress of 
a sailor like himself, but part with him at the door, and walk 
off in the direction of the city. He then followed him, saw 
him go into the watchmaker’s, and come out putting some- 
thing in his trousers’ pocket, followed him again, and ob- 
served that the ring, which he knew, and which he had seen 
on his hand as he came behind him from Limehouse, was gone, 
as well as his watch, which he had seen him use the night 
before, while now he looked up at every clock he passed. ^ Hor 
did he leave his track till he saw him get into a train at 
King’s Cross, accompanied by another sailor, not the one he 
had seen in the morning, whom he met evidently by appoint- 
ment at the station. Here the condition of his own funds 


364 


Guild Court 


brought Molken to a pause, or he would very likely have fol- 
lowed his wild-goose chase to Newcastle at least. As it was, 
he could only find out where they were going, and remain be- 
hind with the hope of being one day called upon to give 
evidence that would help to hang him. Nor had he long to 
wait before something seemed likely to come of all his pains- 
taking. For after a few days he had a second visit from Mr. 
Sargent, to whom, however, he was chary of his information 
till bribed by a couple of sovereigns. Then he told him all. 
The only point Mr. Sargent could at once lay hold of was the 
ring. He concluded that he had recovered the ring merely to 
show it to her, and again make away with it, which must even 
in her eyes look bad enough to justify any amount of jealousy 
as to the truth of his reformation. Acting on this fresh dis- 
covery, he went to the watchmaker’s — a respectable man who 
did business in a quiet way, and had accommodated Tom only 
for old acquaintance’ sake, not, however, knowing much about 
him. Mr. Sargent told him who he was, gave him his card, 
and easily prevailed on him to show the watch and the ring. 
The latter especially Mr. Sargent examined, and finding quite 
peculiarity enough about it to enable him to identify it by 
description, took his leave. 

Now, had it not been for Thomas’s foolish, half-romantic way 
of doing things, no evil could have come of this. If, when he 
found that he had still a little time, he had returned and fully 
explained to his friends what his object was when he left them 
so suddenly, all would have been accounted for. He liked im- 
portance, and surprises, and secrecy. But this was self-indul- 
gence, when it involved the possibility of so much anxiety as 
a lengthened absence must occasion Lucy, and Mr. Fuller too. 
They had a right, besides, to know everything that he was 
about, after all that they had done for him, and still more 
from the fact that they were both so unselfishly devoted to his 
best good, and must keep thinking about him. Eegarding 
his behavior in its true light, however, and coming to the ob- 
vious conclusion between themselves that Tom had a clew to 
some evidence, they remained at ease on the matter — which 
ease was a little troubled when Lucy received the following 
note from Mr. Sargent. Without the least intention of be- 
ing unjust, he gave, as people almost always do, that coloring 
to his representation which belonged only to the colored me- 
dium of prejudication through which he viewed the object : 

Dear Madam, — Perfectly aware that I am building an 


Molken on the Scent, 


365 


insurmountable barrier between myself and my own peace, I 
am yet sufficiently disinterested to have some regard for yours. 
If you will only regard the fact as I have now stated it — that 
I have no hope for myself, that, on the contrary, I take the 
position, with all its obloquy, of the bringer of unAvelcome 
tidings — you will, however you may regard me, be a little 
more ready to listen to what I have to communicate. From 
one of a certain gentleman’s companions, of such unquestion- 
able character that he refused information until I bribed him 
with the paltry sum of two pounds — (I at least am open, you 
see) — I learned that he had again parted with the ring, the 
possession of which he had apparently recovered only for the 
sake of producing it upon occasion of his late interview with 
you. You will say such testimony is no proof ; but I will de- 
scribe the ring which I found in the possession of the man to 
whom I was directed, leaving you to judge whether it is yours 
or not: A good-sized rose-diamond, of a pale straw color, with 
the figures of two serpents carved on the ring, the head of each 
meeting the body of the other round opposite sides of the dia- 
mond. Do not take the trouble to answer this letter, except I 
can be of service to you. All that it remains possible for me 
to request of you now is, that you will believe it is for your 
sake, and not for my own, that I v/rite this letter. In Gcd’s 
name I beg that you will not give yourself into the power of a 
man whose behavior after marriage has not the benefit of even 
a doubt when regarded in the light of his behavior before it. 
If you will not grant me the justice of believing in my true 
reasons for acting as I do, I yet prefer to bear the consequen- 
ces of so doing to the worse suffering of knowing that there 
was one effort I might have made and did not make for your 
rescue from the worst fate that can befall the innocent. 

Your obedient servant, 

J. Saegent.” 

Lucy gave a little laugh to herself when she read the letter. 
There was no doubt about the ring being hers ; but if Thomas 
had set out on the supposed errand it was easy to see that the 
poor fellow, having no money, must have parted with the ring 
for the sake of procuring the means of doing her justice. But 
if this was so plain, why was it that Lucy sat still and pale for 
an hour after, with the letter in her hand, and that when she 
rose it was to go to Mr. Fuller with it ? It was the source 
alone of Mr. Sargent’s information that occasioned her the 
anxiety. If he had been as explicit about that as ho was about 


GuM Court 


366 

the ring, telling how Molken had watched and followed 
Thomas, she would not have been thus troubled. And had 
Mr. Sargent been as desirous of being just to Thomas as of 
protecting Lucy, perhaps he would have told her more. But 
there are a thousand ways in which a just man may do in- 
justice. 

My reader must not suppose, however, that Lucy really dis- 
trusted Thomas. The worst that she feared was that he had 
not quite broken with his bad companions ; and the very 
thought of Molken, returning upon her as she had seen him 
that night in the thunder-storm, and coming along with the 
thought of Thomas, was a distress to her. To be made thus 
unhappy it is not in the least necessary that one should really 
doubt, but that forms, ideas of doubt, should present them- 
selves to the mind. They cannot always be answered in a 
quiet, triumphant fashion, for women have been false and 
men have been hypocrites in all ages ; and the mind keeps 
seeking the triumphant answer and cannot find it. 

In something of this mood, and yet more vexed that such 
disquietude should have any place in her mind, regarding 
it as vile unfaithfulness on her part, she rose, and for the 
sake of hearing Mr. Fuller’s answer justify her own confi- 
dence, took him the letter. 

Having read it, the first words Mr. Fuller spoke, were : 

‘‘ The writer of this is honest.” 

Then you think it is all true ! ” said Lucy, in some dis- 
may. 

‘‘ What he tells as fact, no doubt is fact,” answered Mr. 
Fuller. It does not follow, however, that his conclusions 
are in the least correct. The most honest man is, if not as 
liable, yet as certainly liable to mistake as the most dishonest. 
It is indubitable out of regard for youa* welfare that he has 
written the letter ; but you know all the other side of which he 
knows nothing. You don’t believe it yourself, Lucy — ^the in- 
ference of Thomas’s hypocrisy, I mean ? ” 

No, no,” cried Lucy. “ I do not.” 

Facts are certainly stubborn things, as people say. But it 
is equally certain that they are the most slippery things to get a 
hold of. And even when you have got a hold of them, they 
can Idc used with such different designs — after such varying 
fashions, that no more unlike buildings can be constructed of 
the same bricks or hewn stones, than conclusions aiTived at 
from precisely the same facts. And this because all the facts 
round about the known facts, and which keep those facts in 


Molhen on the Scent 


367 


their places, compelling them to combine after a certain 
fashion, are not known, or perhaps are all unknown. For in- 
stance, your correspondent does not know — at least he does not 
give you to understand that he knows — ^how his informant ar- 
rived at the knowledge of the facts upon which he lays such 
stress. When I recall Thomas’s whole bearing and conduct I 
cannot for a moment accept the conclusions arrived at by him, 
whatever may be the present appearance of the facts he goes 
upon. Facts are like faces — capable of a thousand expressions 
and meanings. Were you satisfied entirely with Thomas’s be- 
havior in the talk you had with him ? ” 

Entirely. It left nothing to wish more, or different.” 

‘‘ Then you have far deeper ground to build upon than any 
of those facts. They can no more overturn your foundation 
than the thickest fog can remove the sun from the heavens. 
You cannot prove that the sun is there. But neither can you 
have the smallest real doubt that he is there. You must wait 
with patience, believing all things, hoping all things.” 

‘‘ That is just what I have been saying to myself. Only I 
wanted to hear you say it too. I wanted it to come in at my 
ears as well as out of my heart.” 

When a month had passed away, however, bringing no news 
of Thomas ; when another month had passed, and still he 
neither came nor wrote, hope deferred began to work its own 
work and make Lucy’s heart sick. But she kept up bravely, 
through the help of her daily labor. Those that think it hard 
to have to work hard as well as endure other sore trials, little 
know how much those other trials are rendered endurable by 
the work that accompanies them. They regard the work as an 
additional burden, instead of as the prop which keeps their 
burdens from crushing them to the earth. The same is true of 
pain — sometimes of grief, sometimes of fear. And all of these 
are of the supports that keep the weight of evil within us, of 
selfishness, and the worship of false gods, from sinking us into 
Tophet. They keep us in some measure from putting our 
trust in that which is weak and bad, even when they do but 
little to make us trust in God. 

Nor did this season of trial to Lucy pass by without bring- 
ing some little measure of good to the poor, disappointed, fret- 
ful soul of her grandmother. How much Widdles had to do 
with it — and my reader must not despise Widdles ; many a 
poor captive has been comforted by a mouse, a spider, a rat 
even ; and I know a lady who, leading a hard life while yet a 
child, but possessing one little garret-room as her own, with a 


368 


Guild Court 


•v^indow that opened on the leads, cultivated green things 
there enough to feed a few pet snails, to each of which she 
gave the name of one of her best friends, great names, too, 
and living names, so that I will not, as she most innocently 
and lovingly did, associate them with snails, though even thus 
— -- 1 -- 1 heart how much Widdles 



much the divine help of 


time, and a sacred deprivation of that hope in chance which 
keeps man sometimes from hoping in God, I cannot tell ; it 
was the work of the all-working Spirit, operating in and on her 
mind mediately or immediately. She grew calmer, and began 
to turn her thoughts a little away from what she fancied might 
have been if things had not gone WTong so perversely, and to 
reflect on the fact, which she had often expressed in words, 
but never really thought about before — that it would be all 
the same a hundred years after — a saying which, however far 
from true — although, in fact, taken logically as it stands, ab- 
solutely false — yet has, wrapt up in it, after a clumsy fashion, 
a very great and important truth. By slow degrees her for- 
mer cheerfulness began to show a little light over her hitherto 
gloomy horizon ; her eyes became less turbid ; she w^ould smile 
occasionally, and her communications wdth Widdles grew more 
airy. I do most potently believe that Widdles w'as, not only 
in the similarity^ but in the infinite siwality (I am sorry to 
have to coin a word) of his influence, homeopathically opera- 
tive in working a degi’ee of cure in the troubled nature of the 
old woman. 

Ah, Widdles, Widdles ! ” she would say, as she rubbed the 
unavailing Balm of Columbia on his blue" back, ‘‘you and I 
know wdiat trouble is ! Don’t we, old bird ? ” 

She began to have a respect for her own misfortunes, which 
indicated that they had begun to recede a little from the point 
of her vision. To have had misfortunes is the only distinction 
some can claim. How much that can distinguish one man 
from another, judge, oh Humanity. But the heart that knows 
its own bitterness too often forgets that there is more bitter- 
ness in the world than that. 

Widdles would cock his magnificent head and whiskers on 
one side, and wink with one eye, as much as to say, “ I be- 
lieve you, old girl.” Then he would turn his denuded, feather- 
less back upon her, as much as to add, with more solemnity : 
“Contemplate my condition, madam. Behold me. Imagine 
what I once was, that you may understand the spite of foi^tune 
which has reduced me "to my present bareness. Am I not a 


Molhen on the Scent, 


369 


spectacle to men and angels ? And am I not therefore distin- 
guished above my fellows ? ” Perhaps, however, I am all 
wrong in giving this interpretation to the actions of the bird. 
Perhaps the influence that flowed from him into the heart 
of Mrs. Boxall was really such as, put in words, would amount 
to this : Here I am without a feather to hide my somewhat 
skinny proportions ; but what the worse am I ? Who cares ? 
So long as you don’t, I don’t. Let’s turn about once more. 
My dancing days are over : but life is life, even without 
feathers.” 

If Mrs. Boxall had had her way with Widdles, he would 
have turned out a resplendent bird in spite of fate. But if 
you had told her not to be distressed at his nakedness, for God 
cared for Widdles, not as much, but as well as for her, she 
would have judged you guilty of something like blasphemy. 
Was it because the bird was comical, as even she admitted, 
that you must not speak of God’s care in relation to him.^ 
Certainly, however, he sowed not neither did he reap ; and as 
for a barn to store his winter-grain in — ^poor Widdles ! Yet, 
was he forgotten ? Mrs. Boxall was the last person who could 
say so, with her sugar, her nuts, her unguents of price — 
though the latter, clearly a striving against Providence, were 
not of so much account in the eyes of the bird. I dare say he 
found them soothing, though. 

However all these things may have been, one thing is cer- 
tain, that Mrs. Boxall began to recover her equanimity, and at 
len^h even her benevolence toward men in general — with one 
class exception, that of lawyers, and two individual exceptions, 
those of old Worboise and young Worboise. I believe she had 
a vague conviction that it was one of the malignant class 
above mentioned that had plucked Widdles. Ah, my poor 
Widdles! Them lawyers!” she would say. ^‘You would 
have been a very different person indeed, Widdles, if it hadn’t 
been for them. But it’ll be all the same in a hundred years, 
Widdles. Keep up heart, old bird. It’ll all be over soon. If 
you die before me. I’ll put you on a winding-sheet that’ll be a 
deal more comfortable than dead feathers, and I’ll bury you 
with my own Jiands. But what’ll you do for me, if I die first, 
you little scarecrow ? You’ll look about for me, won’t you ? 
That’s about all you can do. And you’ll miss the bits of 
sugar. Mattie, my dear, mind that Widdles has his sugar, 
and everything regular after I’m dead and gone.” 

She began to take to Mattie again, and even to make her 
read to her of a Sunday. But this, as of old, gave rise to 
24 


370 


Guild Court 


much difference of opinion between them, which, however, 
resulted in the old woman’s learning something from the child, 
if not in the immediate case, yet in the next similar case. For 
it often happens that a man who has opposed another’s opinion 
bitterly in regard to the individual case that occasioned the 
difference, will act entirely according to that other’s Judgment 
in the next precisely similar case that occurs ; although if you 
were to return to the former, he would take up his former 
position with an access of obstinacy in the reaction from hav- 
ing yielded to argument. Something like this took place be- 
tween Grannie and Mattie. It was amusing to hear how the 
former would attribute all the oddities of the latter to the fact 
that she belonged to the rising generation, never seeming to 
suspect that Mattie was an exception to children in general, 
as peculiar as Widdles in relation to birds. 


CHAPTER LIV, 


GBANNIE APPEALS TO WIDDLES, 


One sultry evening in summer, Lucy was seated at her piano, 
which had its place in Mr. Kitely’s back parlor, near the black 
oak cabinet, but she was not playing. She had just been 
singing a little song from some unknown pen, which she had 
found with music of her father’s in the manuscripts he had 
left her. This was the song : 

1. Nursing it ? 


Sunshine fair. 
In the air, 



Bring relief, 


On the earth 1 
Everywhere 


Waking mirth I 
Stay not there. 

I sit apart 


Open door 
Thee before, 

And the fold 

Of my curtain draw aside. 
Enter, enter, golden tide. 


In the dark. 


By the hearth 
Of ray heart 


2 . 


Dost thou mark 
How I sit 


Summer Wind, 


Nature’s laughter I 


Nature’s laughter I 
Of sweet smiling 


In the dark. 
With my grief, 


Of sweet smiling 
Waker, wafter I 


371 


Grannie Appeals to Widdles, 


Care beguiling, 

Toying, wiling, 

Never glance 
Throw behind. 

In the dance 
Still advance. 

To the past 
Deaf and blind. 

Follow after. 

Fleet and fast. 

Newer gladness, 

Careless wind I 
See the sadness 
Of my mind. 

Over river, 

Hill and hollow. 

Resting never, 

Thou dost follow 
Other graces. 

Lovelier places. 

Newer flowers. 

Leafier bowers : 

I still sit 
Nursing it — 

My old sorrow — 

Night and morrow. 

All my mind 
Looks behind. 

And 1 fret. 

Look, I set 
A wide door 
Thee before. 

And my casement open lay ; 
Come, and blow my cares away. 

3 

Sunshine fair ! 

Of the saint 
Gild the hair ; 

Wake the child. 

With his mirth 
Send him wild. 

To the faint 
Give new breath ; 

From the earth 
Take the death. 

Take the dearth. 

’Tis in vain 
To complain. 

And implore 
Thee to glide. 

Thee to glow. 

In my mind ; 


For my care 
Will nevermore 
Rise and go. 

Open door, 

Windows wide, 

I do find 
Yield no way 
To the mind. 

Glow and play. 

Come and go, 

Glance and glow. 

To and fro. 

Through the air I 
Thou would’st say. 

As ye use, 

Thou and Wind, 

Forget ; 

But not yet 
I would choose 
That way : 

Shine and glitter, come and go j 
Pass me by, and leave me so. 

4. 

And I whisper 
To the wind. 

Evening lisper 
In the curl 
Of the girl. 

Who, all kind. 

Waits her lover — 

Waft and hover. 

Linger over 
Her bright color. 

Waft her dolor 
O’er the ocean. 

With a faint. 

Reviving motion. 

Blow her plaint 
From the maiden 
Sorrow-laden ; 

Take all grief. 

Which to lose 
Were relief. 

Leave me, leave me, for I choose 
Still to clasp my grief. 

5. 

Sunshine fair I 
Windy air ! 

Come and go. 

Glance and glow. 

Shine and show. 


372 


Guild Court. 


Waft and blow ! 
Neither choosing 
Nor refusing. 
Neither fretting 
Nor forgetting 
I will set 
Open yet 
Door and pane. 
You may come. 
Or the rain : 

I will set. 
Indifferent, 

Open yet 
Door and pane. 
Sun and wind. 


Rain-cloud blind, 

Parted, blent, 

There is room, 

Go and come. 

Loving only 
To be lonely. 

To be sad. 

I repent, 

Sun and wind. 

That 1 went 
You to find : 

I was rent 
In my mind. 

Sun and wind, do what ye will ; 
I sit looking backward still. 


Lucy, I say, had finished this song, and was sitting silent be- 
fore the instrument, with her hands laid on the keys, which had 
just ceased the long-drawn sound, and again sunk into stillness. 
Two arms came round her from behind. She did not start. She 
was taken by but not with surprise. She was always with him in 
mood, if not in thought, and his bodily presence therefore over- 
came her only as a summer cloud. She leaned back into his em- 
brace, and burst into tears. Then she would rise to look at 
him, and he let her go. She saw him rather ragged, rather 
dirty, quite of a doubtful exterior to the eye of the man who 
lives to be respectable, but her eye saw deeper. She looked 
into his face — the window of his being — and was satisfied. 
Truth shone there from the true light and fire within. He did 
not fall at her feet as once before. The redeemed soul stood 
and looked her in the face. He put out his arms once more, 
and she did not draw back. She knew that he was a man, 
that he was true, and she was his. And he knew, in the testi- 
mony thus given him, that the last low-brooding rims of 
the cloud of his shame had vanished from his heaven, and that 
a man may have sinned and yet be glad. He could give God 
thanks for the shame, whose oppression had led him to under- 
stand and hate the sin. For sin gives birth to shame, and in 
this child-bearing is cleansed. Verily there is One, I repeat, 
who bringeth light out of darkness, good out of evil. It comes 
not of the evil, but out of the evil, because He is stronger than 
the evil ; and He, not evil, is at the heart of the universe. 
Often and often yet in the course of life, would Thomas have 
to be humbled and disappointed. But not the less true was 
the glow of strength that now pervaded his consciousness. It 
was that this strength, along with a thousand other virtues. 


Grannie Appeals to Widdles, 373 

might be perfected, that the farther trials were to come. It 
was true, so true that it was worth making fact. 

But my young reader, who delights in the emotion rather 
than in the being of love, will grumble at these meditations, 
and say, Why don’t you go on ? why don’t you tell us some- 
thing more of their meeting ?” I answer, ‘^Because I don’t 
choose to tell you more. There are many things, human things 
too, so sacred that they are better left alone. If you cannot 
imagine them, you don’t deserve to have them described. We 
want a little more reticence as well as a great deal more open- 
ness in the world — the pulpit included. But against stupid- 
ity the gods themselves are powerless.” Ah no I that is a hea- 
then utterance. Let the stupid rage, and when they imagine, 
let it be vain things. The stupid, too, have a God that will 
slay their stupidity by the sword of his light. The time will 
come when even they will repent, not of their stupidity, for 
that they could not help, but of the arrogance of fancied 
knowledge that increased instead of diminishing it, and made 
them a thorn in the llesh of them that saw and would have 
opened their eyes. No doubt many of them that suppose they 
see, fancy it only in virtue of this same stupidity ; but the end 
will show all. Meantime the tares and the wheat must grow to- 
gether, and there are plenty of intellectual tares that spring from 
the root of the moral tares, and will be separated with them. 

After awhile, when their feelings were a little composed, 
Thomas began to tell Lucy all his adventures. In the middle, 
however, Mrs. Boxall returned. She had most opportunely 
been calling on a neighbor, and if Thomas had not learned 
this from Mr. Kitely, he would have sent for Lucy instead of 
going in as he did. They heard her voice in the shop. 

Don’t tell grannie anything about it yet,” said Lucy. 

She’s much quieter in her mind- now, and if we were to set 
her off again it would only do her harm. Any thing certain 
she has a right to know, but I don’t think she has a right to 
know all that you are trying to do for her. That is your busi- 
ness. But you mustn’t mind how she behaves to you, Tom 
dear. She thinks you and your father all one in the affair.” 

When the old lady entered she saw at a glance how things 
were going ; but she merely gave a very marked sniff, and 
retreated to her chair by the window. She first seated herself, 
and then proceeded to take off her bonnet and shawl. But 
she could not keep silent long, and the beginning of speech as 
well as of strife is like the letting out of water. 

Thomas,” she said — for people of her degree of education 


374 


Guild Court 


became more familiar in their address when they are angry — 
^‘is this room mine or yours 

‘^Grannie,” said Lucy, ‘‘Thomas has nothing to do with 
it. He was away from home, I assure you, wlien — when — 
things went wrong.” 

“ Very convenient, no doubt, for both of you 1 It’s nothing 
to you, so long as you marry him, of course. But you might 
have waited. The money would have been yours. But you’ll 
have it all the sooner for marrying the man that turned your 

G randmother into the street. Well, well ! Only I won’t sit 
ere and see that scoundrel in my room.” 

She rose as she spoke, though what she would or could have 
done she did not know herself. It was on Lucy’s lips to say 
to her — “ The room’s mine, grannie, if you come to that, and 
I won’t have my friend turned out of it.” But she thought 
better of it, and taking Thomas’s hand, led him into the shop. 
Thereupon grannie turned to Widdles for refuge, not from the 
pain of Thomas’s presence, but from the shame of her own 
behavior, took him out of his cage, and handled him so roughly 
that one of the three wing feathers left on one side came off 
in her hand. The half of our ill-temper is often occasioned 
by annoyance at the other half. 

Thomas and Lucy finished their talk in a low voice, hidden 
in the leafy forest of books. Thomas told her all about it 
now ; how he wanted to find the man Jack Stevens, and how 
Kobins and he had followed him to Lisbon, and found him 
there and brought him home ; how he had had to part with 
her ring as well as his own watch for money to start them in 
their search, and how even then they had had to work their 
passage to Lisbon and back. But if the representation she 
and Mr. Fuller had given him of the state of the case was cor- 
rect, he said, there could be no doubt but Jack’s testimony 
would reverse the previous decision, and grannie would have 
her own. 

“ I can’t help being rather sorry for it,” concluded Tom ; 
“for it’ll come to you then, Lucy, I suppose, and you will 
hardly be able to believe that it was not for my own sake that 
I went after Jack Stevens, I’ve got him safe, and Eobins too, 
at the Mermaid. But I can’t be grand and give you up. If 
you were as rich as Miss Coutts, I couldn’t give you up — 
though I should like to, almost, when I think of the money 
and my father.” 

‘‘Don’t give me up, Tom, or I’ll give you up, and that 
would be a bad job for me.” 


Grannie Appeals to Widdles, 375 

Then they made it clear to each other that nothing was fur- 
ther from the intention of either of them. 

‘‘ But what am I to do next, Lucy ? You must tell me the 
lawyers that conducted your side of the case.” 

‘‘ I am afraid I can’t ask Mm to do anything more.” 

Who’s M.m, Lucy?” 

Mr. Sargent.” 

Sargent — Sargent — I think I have heard the name. He’s 
a barrister. If you are not satisfied with him, the firm you 
empl(wedwill speak to another.” 

‘‘ ELe did everything, Thomas. But — 

Lucy hesitated. Thomas saw that she was blushing. Per- 
haps- it was the consciousness of his own unworthiness that 
made him jealous. 

‘^Oh, very well, Lucy 1 If you don’t want to tell me, of 
course — ” 

Thomas ! Thomas ! Can’t you trust me yet ? I have trust- 
ed you, Thomas.” 

He had the grace to feel ashamed of himself at once. 

‘^Forgive me, Lucy,” he said. ^‘I was wrong. Only I 
love you so ! ” 

I will tell you all about it, Tom, dear.” 

You shan’t tell me a word about it. I can guess. But 
what are we to do ? ” 

I will go and consult Mr. Morgenstern.” 

There is no time to lose.” 

Come with me to his office, then, at once. It is not far to 
Old Broad Street.” 

They set out instantly, found Mr. Morgenstern, and put him 
in possession of the discovered evidence. He was delighted 
with the news. 

We must find Sargent at once,” he said. 

Lucy began to stammer out some objection. 

Oh ! I know all about that, Lucy,” said he. But this 
is no time for nonsense. In fact you would be doing the hon- 
est fellow a great wrong if you deprived him of the pleasure of 
gaining his ,case after all. Indeed, he would feel that far 
more than your refusal of him. And quite right, too. Sar- 
gent will be delighted. It will go far to console him, poor 
fellow.” 

But will it be right of me to consent to it ? asked 
Thomas, with hesitation. 

It is a mere act of justice to him,” said Mr. Morgenstern 5 
‘^and, excuse me> I don’t see that you have any right to bring 


376 


Guild Court 


your feelings into the matter. Besides, it will give Mrs. Box- 
all the opportunity of making him what return she ought. It 
will he a great thing for him — give him quite a start in his 
profession, of which he is not a little in want. I will go to 
him at once,” concluded Mr. Morgenstem, taking his hat. 


CHAPTER LV. 

GUILD COUET AGAIN. 

I WILL not linger over the last of my story. Mr. Sargent 
was delighted at the turn affairs had taken — from a business 
point of view, I mean. The delight was greatly tempered 
by other considerations. Still he went into the matter mind 
and soul, if not heart and soul, and moved for a fresh trial on 
the ground of fresh evidence. Mr. Worboise tried the plan of 
throwing discredit on the witness ; but the testimony of Rob- 
ins and Thomas was suflBicient to remove any influence that 
course might have had. The former judgment was rescinded, 
and the property was Mrs. BoxalPs. 

Mr. Worboise and Mr. Sargent met in the lobby. The lat- 
ter, in very unlawyer-like fashion, could not help saying : 

You would have done better to listen to reason, Mr. Wor- 
boise.” 

“ I’ve fought fair, and lost, Mr. Sargent ; and there’s an 
end of it.” 

The chief consolation Mr. Worboise now had was that his 
son had come out so much more of a man than he expected, 
having, indeed, foiled him at his own game, though not with 
his own weapons. To this was added the expectation of the 
property, after all, reverting to his son ; while, to tell the 
truth, his mind was a little easier after he was rid of it, al- 
though he did not part with it one moment before he was com- . 
polled to do so. He made no advances however, toward a 
reconciliation with Thomas. Probably he thought that lay 
with Thomas, or at least would wait to give him an oppor- 
tunity of taking the first step. My reader would doubt- 
less have^ expected, as I should myself, that he would vow 
endless alienation from the son who had thus defeated his 
dearest plans^ first in one direction, then in another; but 


Guild Court Again, 377 

somehow, as I have shown, his heart took a turn short of that 
North Pole of bitterness. 

There is nothing to wonder at in the fact that Mrs. Boxall 
should know nothing yet of her happy reverse of fortune. 
They had, as I have said already, judged it better to keep the 
fresh attempt from her, so that if by any chance it should fail, 
she might not suffer by it, and, in any case, might be pro- 
tected from the wearing of anxiety and suspense. 

Let’s give grannie a surprise, Lucy,” said Thomas, having 
hurried to her with the good news. 

‘^How do you mean, Tom? We must be careful how we 
break it to her. Poor dear ! she can’t stand much now.” 

Well, my plan will just do for that. Get Mrs. Whatsher- 
name, over the way — her old crony, you know — to ask her to 
tea this evening. While she’s away, Kitely, Spelt, and I will 
get all the things back into the old place. There’s nobody 
there, is there ? ” 

^‘No, I believe not. I don’t see why we shouldn’t. Pll 
run across to the old lady, and tell her we want grannie out of 
the way for an hour or two.” 

She took care, however, not to mention the reason, or their 
surprise would have been a failure. 

There were no carpets to fit, for the floor had been but par- 
tially covered, showing the dark boards in the newest fashion. 
Before Mrs. Boxall’s visit was over, the whole of her household 
property had been replaced — each piece in the exact position 
it used to occupy when they had not yet dreamed of fortune 
or misfortune. Just as they were getting anxious lest she 
should come upon the last of it, Lucy, bethinking herself, said 
to the bookseller : 

‘^Mr. Kitely, you must lend us Widdles. Grannie can’t 
exist without Widdles.” 

‘‘I wish you hadn’t proposed it, miss ; for I did mean to 
have all the credit of that one stroke myself. But Widdles is 
yours, or hers rather, for you won’t care much about the old 
scaramouch ” 

‘‘ Not care about him ! He’s the noblest bird in creation— 
that I know, Mr. Kitely. He does not mind being bald, even, 
and that’s the highest summit of disregard for appearances 
that I know of. I’m afraid I shouldn’t take it so quie%.” 

‘^It don’t much matter nowadays,” said Mr. Kitely. 

They make such wonderful wigs.” 

But that’s ten times worse,” said Lucy. 

You don’t mean to say you’d go v/ith a bare poll, miss, so 


378 GuM Court, 

be that Providence was to serve you the same as Widdles ? — 
which Heaven forbid I ’’ 

I wouldn’t bear a wig anyhow.” 

‘‘What would you do, then, miss ? Black and polish it ?” 

“ What nonsense we are talking ! ” said Lucy, after a good 
laugh. “ But I’m so happy I don’t know what to do. Let’s make 
a wig for Widdles, and grannie will think her bears’ grease has 
made hair grow instead of feathers.” 

Whether this proposal was ever carried out, I do not know. 
But Widdles followed the furniture ; and when grannie came 
home she found that all her things were gone. She stared. 
Hobodv was to be seen. But all were watching from behind 
the defences of Mr. Kitely’s book-shelves. 

“ Mr. Kitely,” she called at last, in a voice that revealed 
consternation. 

The bookseller obeyed the summons. 

“I didn’t expect it of you, Mr. Kitely,” she said, and burst 
into tears. 

This quite upset the conspirators. But Mr. Kitely kept 
them back as they were hurrying forward. 

“We thought we could do a little better for you, you see, 
ma’am. It was a confined place this for the likes of you. So 
Miss Lucy and I made bold to move your things up to a place 
in the court where you’ll have more room.” 

She said nothing but went up stairs. In both rooms she 
found utter emptiness. Mr. Kitely followed her. 

“ There’s not a stick left, you see, ma’am. Come and I'll 
take you home.” 

“ I didn’t think you’d have turned me out in my old age, 
Mr. Kitely. But I suppose I must go.” 

It was with considerable exercise of self-denial that the book- 
seller refrained from telling her the truth, but he could not 
spoil the young people’s sport. He led her up to the door of 
her own house. 

“ Ko, Mr. Kitely. I’ll never set foot in that place again. 

I won’t accept it from no one — ^not even rent-free.” 

“ But it’s your own,” said Kitely, almost despairing of per- 
suasion, and carried beyond his intent. 

“ That’s just why I won’t go in. It is mine, I know, but I 
won’t have my own in charity.” 

“ Thomas,” whispered Lucy, for they were following behind, 
“ you must tell her the good news. It will help her over her 
prejudice against you. Old people are hard to change, you 


GiM Court Again, 379 

Mrs. Boxall,” said Thomas, going up to her, this house 
is your own.’’ 

Go away,” returned Mrs. Boxall, energetically. Isn’t it 
enough that you have robbed me ? Will you offer me my own 
in charity.” 

Do listen to me, grannie,” pleaded Thomas. 

I will not listen to you. Call a cab, Lucy. We’ll drive to 
the nearest workhouse.” 

Lucy saw it was time to interfere. 

What Thomas says is true, grannie, if you would only 
listen so him. Every thing’s changed. Thomas has been 
over the seas to find a man who was in uncle’s ship when it 
went down. He has given such evidence that the property is 
yours now.” 

I don’t care ; it’s all a trick. I don’t believe he went over 
the seas. I won’t take any thing from the villain’s hand.” 

Villains don’t usually plot to give away what they’ve got,” 
said Lucy. 

But it’s Thomas Worboise you mean ? ” 

Yes ; but he had nothing to do with it, as I’ve told you a 
hundred times, grannie. He’s gone and slaved for you, and 
that’s all the thanks you give him — ^to stand there on the 
stones, refusing to take what’s your very own.” 

The light was slowly dawning on grannie’s confused mind. 

Then you mean,” she said, that all my son Kichard’s 
money — ” 

^‘Is yours, grannie,” said Lucy and Thomas in a breath. 

‘‘ Only,” added Lucy, “you’ve spoiled all our bit of fun by 
being so obstinate, grannie.” 

Eor sole answer the old woman gave a hand to each of them, 
and led them into the house, up the wide oak staircase, and 
along the passage into the old room, where a fire was burning 
cheerfully just as in the old time, and every article of furni- 
ture, book-case, piano, settle, and all, stood each in its old 
place, as if it had never been moved. 

Mrs. Boxall sat down in her own chair, “like one that hath 
been stunned,” and for some moments gave no sign of being 
conscious of what was going on around her. At length a little 
noise at her ear attracted her attention. She looked around. 
On the edge of the little table which had always been beside 
her easy-chair, stood Widdles, the long feathers of whose 
wings looked like arms that he had tucked under his coat-tails, 
only there was no coat, 

“ Poor Widdles I ” said the old woman, and burst into tears. 


380 


Guild Court 


CHAPTER LVL 

WOUKD UP OK RUN DOWN. 

Thomas resumed liis place in the office, occupying his old 
stool, and drawing his old salary, upon which he now support- 
ed himself in comfort and decency. He took a simple lodging 
in the neighborhood, and went twice a week in the evening to 
see his mother. In doing so, he did not run much risk of 
meeting his father, whom he neither sought nor avoided, 
for he was seldom home before midnight. His mother 
now lived on these visits and the expectation of them. 
And she began not only to love her son more and more for 
himself, but to respect him. Indeed, it was chiefly the re- 
spect that increased her love. If he was not converted, there 
must be something besides conversion that was yet good, if 
not so good. And she thought she might be excused if she 
found some pleasure even in that. It might be a weakness — 
it might be wrong, she thought, seeing that nothing short of 
absolute conversion was in the smallest degree pleasing in the 
sight of God ; but as he was her own son, perhaps she would 
be excused, though certainly not justified. As Thomas’s per- 
ception of truth grew, however, the conversations he had with 
her insensi bly modified her judgment through her feelings, 
although she never yielded one point of her creed as far as 
words were concerned. 

The chief aid which Thomas had in this spiritual growth, 
next to an honest endeavor to do the work of the day and 
hour, and his love to Lucy, was the instruction of Mr. Fuller. 
Never, when he could help it, did he fail to be present at 
daily prayers in St. Amos’s Church. Nor did he draw upon 
his office hours for this purpose. The prayers fell in his din- 
ner hour. Surely no one will judge that a quarter of an hour, 
though in the middle of the day, spent in seeking the presence 
of that Spirit whereby all actions are fitted to the just meas- 
ure of their true end, was disproportioned by excess to the 
time spent in those outward actions of life, the whole true 
value of which depends upon the degree to which they are 
performed after the mind of that Spirit. What gave these 
prayers and exhortations a yet more complete fitness to his 
needs was their shortness. No mind could be wearied by 
them. I believe it very often happens that the length of the 
services, as they are called, is such that they actually disable 
the worshiper in no small degree from acting so after them as 


381 


Wound Up or Run Down, 

alone can make them of real worth to his being : thej are a 
weakness and not a strength, exhausting the worshiper in 
saying Lord, Lord,” instead of sending him forth to do his 
will. The more he feels, the less fit is he, and the less fitting 
it is, to prolong the expression of his devotion. 1 believe this 
is greatly mistaken in all public services that I know anything 
about, which involve, in their length, an entire departure 
from good old custom, not good because old, but so good that 
it ought to have been older, and needs now to be raised from 
the dead that it may be custom once more. Thomas did not 
enjoy his dinner less, and did his work far more thoroughly 
and happily because of this daily worship and doctrine — a 
word which, I think, is never used by St. Paul except as mean- 
ing instruction in duty, in that which it is right to do and 
that which it is right not to do, including all mental action as 
well as all outward behavior. 

It was impossible under the influence of such instruction 
that Tom should ever forget the friends who had upheld him 
in the time of his trouble. He often saw Captain Smith, and 
on one occasion, when he had a fortnight’s holiday — the only 
one before his marriage — he went a voyage to Jersey in his 
brig, working his passage as before, but with a very different 
heart inside his blue jacket. The Pottses, too, he called on 
now and then ; and even the unamiable Jim Salter came 
round to confess his respect for him, when he found that he 
never forgot his old mates. 

As soon as Thomas resumed his stool in the counting-house 
Mr. Wither resigned his, and went abroad. 

Mrs. Boxall of course recovered her cheerfulness, but her 
whole character was more subdued. A certain tenderness to- 
ward Lucy appeared, which, notwithstanding all her former 
kindness was entirely new. A great part of her time was spent 
in offices of good-will toward Widdles. She always kept her 
behavior to Mr. Stopper somewhat stately and distant. But 
he did his best for the business — for it was the best for himself. 

My story leaves Mr. Spelt and Mr. Kitely each happy in a 
daughter, and Mattie and Poppie growing away at their own 
history. 

One evening when Tom was seated with his mother, who 
had again recovered so far as to resume her place on the couch, 
his father came into the room. Tom rose. His father, with- 
out any greeting, said : 

‘^Keep a lookout on that Stopper, Tom. Don’t let him 
have too much of his own way.” 


882 


Guild Court. 


‘^But I haye no authority over him, father.” 

Then the sooner you marry and take the business into 
your own hands the better. 

I’m going to be married next week.” 

That’s right. Make Stopper junior partner, and don’t 
give him too large a share. Come to me to draw up the ar- 
ticles for you.” 

Thank you, father. I will. I believe Mrs. Boxall does 
mean to make the business over to me.” 

Of course. Good-night,” returned Mr. Worboise, and left 
the room without speaking to his wife. 

From this time Tom and his father met much as before their 
quarrel. Tom returned to the house for the week before his 
marriage, and his father made him a present of an outfit for 
the occasion. 

Oh, Tom I I can hardly believe it,” said Lucy, when they 
came home from church. 

I don’t deserve it,” was all Tom’s answer in words. 

After their wedding-journey they went back to the old house 
in Guild Court, in which they had had one or two more rooms 
fitted up. Their grandmother, however, is now urging them 
to move to some suburb, saying she is quite willing to go with 
them. ^^And I don’t believe you will have any objection 
either — will you, old Widdles ? ” she generally adds. 


THE EHD, 



* 


JV 


tv .• 


^ *V 


I • t 




'0^:: 


U,\ 1.4 


t .1 


i 


- V 


T • 




ii- 


Zf^ 


A 


} 


4i 


kVif. 


l^-' t *' 






- ★ 




■n 




V *4 


■p'l 


• * '•-'.I 


Jf. P 


»j » *.' 














* I 


K 




I W« 




9 y 


{W 




■ 7 ► 

I- 


.i*4> 


•iv- 


V « 








n!?^‘ 






«« 


.7^ 


'»• 


/S' 








m 


i _- 


Ilk t 


•/T’ 




^ •< 


*, f • r. w' 


^ li 

,’n».- .It 




'4-» 


l 1 »t 


FTA’ 


A « > 


'.-.i/iL# 






:f >- : f 


'S 






fc- T. 


5" 




I’l 


1 1 






/J 




7- 


«r 






♦,ji 


% 




'^' -• 


,'. » r* 


^ VI 


'U 








.1 * 


jft 




f. .. -H 7 • ‘i'» 

. J * i'« 'H* ' • 


» »• 


> f 




t if 

I ll^ 


♦ V'i 


»' * 




(1 


'4r 


k ' 


m''' 


'/<! 


*.*i| 




% '«* 


«. ■!• 


I r\ 


< « 




1 




.*1 j: 




* 




rr * 






U- 


L^' ' 








,ii'i 






• fc — 


♦ - 








S.v 


7 • 




■■■ ' i 

■kiiMorairi -. 'i>'*<-,*»o.'»k'j 


ff 


.1 


^yS 17 - 




.♦Vv'V 


SM 


■W'l''* 






V 




fii 




Y 






\. 




'■. A-V' • . ^f'>S 


I*' 


rAT- 


C<>U I 






vt 




^^1 




%n- 


..•V ’ • •' 

\* A 


'A 


k I* 


I ■ 






w 


.c I- 1 


w 


V 




L> I « 


'I' i^ i* S' ^ 1 ' 


'll 




iV 






A ■''• I - 


IS 


- .s 






■r * 


'■Ml 


•J- ^ * 








• • 


1.4 




i * 


.A‘S 


VA 








i" >:v.';li‘ ■->■ ^ 




V. 


/•I' 




rV. 


IC 






L-lOf. 


? ^r 


_J 




i,. 


I f:% 


»;a4* 




X 


ti^A » 


^s. 






S'r> 


t ' 


. j 




A 





• f. 


' -V*'! '* .i •-*^'1 * 

> i;,'ll^’'':- ' , -‘V ' 



»’ *.»1 




ft. -Vi 








.« 


■-f • 





t 



LIBRARY OF CX)NGRESS 


